The California Dreamer and the Connecticut Yankee
by PlushChrome
Summary: A series of one-shots focusing on the friendship of Peter and Micky. Based off the story Lone Star and Union Jack, by Crystal Rose of Pollux. STORY 34: Sometimes the past can return when you least expect it.
1. All Because of Meatloaf

_Notes: This collection of one-shots is based off of another collection written by Crystal Rose of Pollux. That story, called Lone Star and Union Jack, focuses on the friendship between Mike and Davy, how they met, how they became friends, how they decided to get into music, and eventually, how they met Peter and Micky. Well, this story is going to be doing the same for Peter and Micky. I'm going to go into their side of the story, and I'm going to focus on_ their _friendship. I will have one chapter that will have all the same dialogue and plot as one of the chapters in Lone Star and Union Jack, simply because I will be writing it from Peter and Micky's point of veiw._

_I will try to keep timelines relatively straightforward, this first story taking place about three years prior to the first season of the TV series. I will specify the timeline before each story, so there won't be any confusion._

_The characters aren't mine, except for OC's, and even then, I'm sure a few of the OC's will belong to Crystal Rose of Pollux, as I'm borrowing this story anyway._

* * *

**Ventura, CA, Three years and six months prior:**

Micky was running. He wasn't going anywhere in particular, he wasn't really running away from anything, he was just running. The wind in his face made him feel happy, and so he ran.

Turning a corner, he was suddenly blinded by the sun, and he didn't see the man standing on the corner. There was no time to slow down or stop, and he plowed right into him, sending them both to the ground.

Micky felt the breath leave his lungs as he landed, and he sat up and tried to catch some air so he could breathe again. The man he had run into sat up as well, and Micky looked him over, wondering how much of a scolding he would get from this stranger.

"Ow!" The blonde man said. Then he looked at Micky. "Hey, sorry about that!" He said, standing and helping Micky get to his feet. Micky was confused. "But, but _I_ ran into _you_," He said. "You were just standing there. There's nothing for you to be sorry about."

The blonde smiled. "Well," he said, chuckling nervously. "I guess you learn to just apologize after awhile. Then nobody gets mad at you."

Micky frowned. "You mean, you'd apologize for something you didn't do, just so people won't get mad at you?" The blonde shrugged. "Like I said, after awhile, you learn." Micky chuckled. "How many people a day run into you?" The man smiled again. "You'd be surprised," he admitted.

Micky looked at him curiously. Who was this kid? "And you apologize every time?" He asked. The man nodded. "I don't like fighting," he said simply. Micky shook his head. "You can't let people walk all over you," he said. "You gotta stand up for yourself!"

The blonde looked at Micky. "I do when it matters," he said, and even though he smiled, there was a note of seriousness in his eyes, as if he really knew what he was talking about. "But, in the long run, does it really matter who ran into who?"

Micky stood there, speechless. The kid had a point. The man smiled again, and then turned away, bending over to pick up a bass guitar that he must've dropped when Micky had run into him. "Hey!" Micky said, finding his voice again. "You're a musician!"

The man nodded, standing up. "Well, sort of," he said. "I like to play, but I don't have an amp. So it's kind of just extra baggage right now." "Well then, why do you have it with you out here?" Micky asked.

The man shrugged. "I don't really have anyplace to leave it," he said. Micky looked at him. "Well, where do you live?" He asked, fearing he knew the answer. The man smiled. "Nowhere, right now," he said. "I just go wherever my feet take me."

"Well, that's no way to live," Micky said. "What about when it rains?" "Oh, I can usually find a dry place to hole up in, make sure my bass doesn't get wet." The man shrugged, as if it was no big deal.

Micky couldn't believe what he was hearing. And here he'd thought that he was having it rough. He currently lived in a one-room apartment with a view, and by that, he meant he lived in a small room with a bed in the corner, and a broken window facing the alley outside.

But still, the rent was cheap, and he had four walls and a roof, even if the walls were thin and the roof leaked. "Hey," he said impulsively. "You can come stay with me at my place!" The man looked at him. "Really?" He said. "Why, what's the catch?"

Micky smiled. So the kid wasn't as wishy washy as he'd thought. "No catch," he said. "It's the least I could do after running into you like that, and besides, it's supposed to be cold tonight, what with winter just around the corner." The blonde thought for a moment, and then smiled. "Alright," he said. "But just tonight." Micky nodded, crossing his fingers behind his back.

"Yeah," he said, smirking. "Just for tonight."

As they walked, it suddenly occurred to Micky that he didn't even know his new room-mate's name. "By the way," he said. "I'm Micky. Micky Dolenz. What's your name?" "Peter," the man said. "Peter Tork. I'm from Connecticut."

"Connecticut!?" Micky exclaimed, stopping. "What are you doing way out here!?" Peter shrugged. "I got tired of the same ol' scene, so I split. I've been out on my own for awhile now, just doing whatever I want. Finally ended up here, in California. What about you? Where are you from?"

Micky could hardly believe what he was hearing, Peter had been living on the streets for however long it took to hitch-hike from Connecticut to California. He was beginning to understand how Peter could have had so many people run into him.

But he decided not to say anything about it, so he just told his own story. "I'm not from anywhere," he said, continuing to walk towards his place. "I've lived here in Ventura my whole life." "Really?" Peter asked. "Don't you ever get tired of staying in one place?"

"Well, yeah," Micky said. "But I can't leave yet. I have to finish school first. But when I get old enough, I'm going to move to LA to be a performer. I'm really good with impressions and stuff, and I know a lot of jokes. Besides, I like to make people laugh. One day, my name will be up in lights, and crowds of people will come from miles around to see me."

He gave a side glance to Peter, who was frowning in thought. "You're not out of school yet?" He asked. "How old are you?" Micky chuckled nervously. "I'm 15," he said. "But that's not a problem, is it?" Peter shook his head. "No," he said. "It's not a problem. It's just, I thought you were older. I mean, you said you have your own place, right?"

"Oh, yeah!" Micky said laughing. "Don't worry, if I still lived with my mom, I wouldn't have invited you to stay with me." Peter smiled. "Alright," he said. "Just a question, do you usually invite complete strangers to stay the night?"

Micky blinked. Of course he didn't usually invite complete strangers to stay the night, that would just be asking for trouble. But with Peter, well, he was different. There was just something about the boy that made him seem... trustworthy. Maybe it was the smile.

"No, not usually," he admitted. "But you're not planning on killing me in my sleep or something." He laughed and nudged Peter in the ribs, quickly losing his smile and giving in to anxiousness. "Are you?" He squeaked. Peter raised his hands quickly. "No, no," he said. "I was just wondering."

"Oh, okay." Micky said, quickly returning to his carefree self. "By the way, how old are you?" "I'm 17," Peter said. "I turn 18 in February." "Oh, groovy!" Micky said. "What's it like to be an adult?"

Peter laughed. "Well, it doesn't feel much different than 16," he said. "At least, not for me. I haven't changed much, just gotten taller." "Oh, I see," Micky said, although he didn't really. He couldn't wait until he was 18, when he would be a legal adult and could do whatever he wanted.

He loved his mother, but he was tired of living under someone else's control. That was why he'd moved out, young as he was. He wanted to be able to make his own rules, and do what he wanted. But even with his own place, he still felt like he didn't control his own life. He figured it was because he was so young.

He couldn't imagine being almost 18 and still feeling the same that he did now, he thought that being an adult would change everything.

* * *

"Well, here we are!" He exclaimed, reaching his apartment building. Really, it was a small hotel, but the owner let Micky stay in one of the rooms, and as payment, Micky worked there after school and on Saturdays. Peter looked around as they went through the lobby, and he followed Micky up the four flights of stairs to his room on the top floor.

"Gee, this place is pretty small," Peter said, setting his bass down against the wall and looking around the room. Micky also glanced around, noting once again how drab the room really was.

The carpet was thin and worn, with a faded design of red roses on a green background. The twin-sized bed was in the corner, with mismatched blue sheets and a multi-colored shag blanket he'd brought from his old room when he'd moved here.

The broken window was hidden by plain white curtains, although parts of them were stained from time, looking to be more of an ivory color.

He had a table against the wall, with two rickety wooden chairs on either side. The walls were papered with wallpaper that matched the carpet, but he had covered them up mostly with pictures and posters and doodles he had drawn when he was supposed to be doing his homework.

There was a kitchenette against one wall, it had a counter, a sink, a very small refrigerator, and a stove-top, but no oven. There was a cupboard hanging from the wall above the counter, with glass-paned doors that had lost their glass, so you could easily see the few dishes Micky owned.

There was also a couch and an end table, the couch was red, and sagged down in the middle, and there was a small radio on the end table.

Micky smiled nervously as he turned to Peter. "Yeah, it's small," he said. "But it's cheap, and I don't need much. Just a place to do my homework, and crash every night. Besides, it's mine, I can make my own rules. I can stay out as late as I want, I can sleep in on Sundays as long as I want, I can do whatever I want."

Peter smiled. "That does sound pretty good," He said. "Thanks for letting me stay the night, Micky. Not very many people take in strays like me." Micky smiled back. "No problem," he said. "My day was boring anyway."

They talked for awhile as the day grew into night, and Micky suddenly realized that he was hungry. "Hey, come with me!" He said, jumping up and rushing towards his door. "Why do you run so much?" Peter asked as he followed. "I don't know," Micky answered truthfully. "I guess I just don't like to hold still."

They left the room and Peter followed as Micky ran down the stairs, skipping every other step. When they reached the ground floor, Micky led the way through the lobby and stepped into the kitchen.

"Hey, Aunt Franny," He said, addressing the elderly cook. She turned around and smiled sweetly. "Why, hello, Micky!" She said. "Here for your dinner?" Micky nodded, and then turned towards Peter. "I'd like you to meet Peter," he said. Peter smiled. "Nice to meet you," he said. "So you're Micky's aunt?" "Oh, no, not really!" The cook said. "_Everybody_ calls me Aunt Franny." Micky nodded to Peter, and then, turning back to Aunt Franny, said "He's gonna stay in my room tonight, so can I get an extra plate of dinner?"

Aunt Franny looked Peter over. "Of course!" She said. "But you have to work extra hard tomorrow to pay for it! You know how Mr. Spiner is about hand-outs!"

Mr. Spiner was the owner of the building, and although he was not a hard man, he had made it very clear to his employees that his hotel was not a charity organization. So Micky agreed without so much as blinking an eye.

"Now, wait a second!" Peter said. "Micky, you don't have to do that! I can go out and get my own dinner, I don't want to make you work harder on my account." "Oh, don't worry about it!" Micky said. "I don't mind, really! Besides, Aunt Franny is a great cook! You haven't lived until you try her meatloaf!" Aunt Franny blushed and turned to the stove. "Now, Micky!" She said. "Don't think your flattery will get you any extra portions! I give the same amount of food to you that I give to everybody else!"

"I'm not lying, Aunt Franny!" Micky said, feigning surprise. "Your meatloaf really is the best!" She clicked her tongue and shook her head, but she was smiling anyway, and when she thought Micky wasn't looking, she put an extra scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy onto his plate.

This was a usual thing for the two of them, and Micky couldn't help but smile at their banter. He really hadn't been lying, Aunt Franny's meatloaf was spectacular, but he knew that whenever he commented on it that he would get a little extra food.

She handed the two boys plates, and Micky led the way to a table in the back and they sat down. Peter still looked distressed about Micky's working harder on his account, so Micky sighed.

"Look, Peter," he said. "I really don't mind working a little bit extra tomorrow. I don't!" Peter frowned in thought. "Hey!" He said. "Maybe I could help you tomorrow! That way, you won't have to work harder, and we can still pay off the extra food!"

"Say, Peter, that's a great idea!" Micky said. "I get home from school at 3:30, so we'll start then. You okay with hanging around that long?" Peter shrugged. "Sure, I don't mind. I kinda felt like staying around town for a little while anyway."

Micky smiled. Working at the hotel was never really fun, but maybe with Peter around, it would make the work go by just a little bit faster, and maybe he would enjoy it a bit more.

The two of them ate the rest of their dinner and chatted away as if they were old friends. Peter absolutely fell in love with Aunt Franny's meatloaf, and he joined Micky in showering her with compliments, which ended up with her giving them both a small plate of dessert, "In honor of it bein' Sunday, and all!" After dinner, they went up to Micky's room and stayed up late, Peter telling stories of life on the road. At about midnight, Peter realized the time, and knowing that his new friend had school in the morning, said he was ready for bed.

After a very small argument over who would get the bed, Peter gave in to avoid conflict, and reluctantly took the bed as Micky, happy that he had won, laid down on the couch with an extra blanket.

Peter fell asleep almost instantly, and Micky briefly wondered how long it had been since his new friend had slept on a bed, but soon his thoughts gave way to sleep as well. As he drifted off, he smiled. He had plenty of friends at school, he was far from lonely. But he always felt just a little bit happier whenever he made one more friend in the world.


	2. A Reason and a Season

**Ventura, CA, three years and six months prior:**

Micky raced home from school, for once in his life, excited at the prospect of going to work. Today, Peter would be helping him. He still didn't know much about Peter, they had only met the day before, after all. But still, it wasn't every day he had a friend willing to help him at the hotel.

When he reached the building, he ran up to his room to drop off his school stuff and found Peter sitting on the couch, silently picking at his amp-less bass.

"Hey, Peter!" Micky said. "Ready to pay off that meatloaf?" Peter smiled, setting down the bass. "Alright," he said. "Show me what to do!"

Micky's job at the hotel was being a concierge, so pretty much, he was a boy-of-all-work for the guests. Whatever they wanted or needed doing, they would ring for the concierge to come do it for them.

Even though the hotel was small, it was usually fairly busy, there was never a dull moment. The first summons came only a few moments after Micky put on his uniform and sat down at the concierge desk.

With Peter in tow, Micky ran up to the second floor, where a rather large lady in a purple fur coat needed him to crawl under the bed and retrieve her lipstick, which had rolled under the bed. After he got the lipstick, he realized that he was stuck and couldn't get out from under the bed.

Peter, trying to help, grabbed his ankles and pulled, as Micky tried to push his way out. When he still couldn't get out, the lady in purple had an excellent idea, and called... the concierge. Micky finally get out from under the bed, and ran out the door, just to turn around and knock again, so he could respond to the call.

Then he had to race to the first floor, where a man wanted to know which local restaurants were the best. Then it was up to the fourth floor where a family of five needed him to help their six year old little girl search the hotel for her favorite doll.

Now with the girl following them, they ran around the hotel, looking high and low for the doll, making several stops along the way to help the guests do whatever little tasks they wanted done.

They ran into the lady with the purple coat coming down the hallway of the second floor, and the little girl stuck her tongue out, causing the lady to get offended. As Micky tried to apologize, she turned around and started hitting him with her oversized purse.

On the third floor, they stopped at a room that had rung for the concierge, and when a gorilla answered the door, they wasted no time in leaving, the gorilla chasing after them.

They rushed into another door and shut it behind them. Grabbing random pieces of furniture, they stacked them against the door. Then, turning around, they saw a man sitting there with a fancy dinner set up on a table. Tying a napkin around his neck, he pulled the cover off the tray, and they saw the gorilla's head, still alive and growling at them.

Yelling in fright, they pulled all the furniture away from the door and ran back into the hallway.

On the first floor, Micky ran into a room, followed by Peter, who was followed by the little girl, who was followed by the gorilla, who was followed by the lady in purple. In the room, they saw a mad scientist laughing evilly as he threw a lever, bringing a frankenstein-type monster to life.

Up to the fourth floor, leading a procession that now included the monster, the scientist, the gorilla, the little girl, a circus clown, the lady in purple, and a hunter in a pith helmet with a butterfly net, they opened the door to a room and saw, to their surprise, a steam engine, heading straight for the door.

Shutting it quickly, Micky paused, confused. Opening the door again, he saw a family of angry tigers, snarling and growling in the tall jungle grass. He yelled in fright and shut the door again. The next time he opened it, he saw a group of trapeze artists swinging and flying high above the ground, spotlights shining on them.

He shut the door and opened it again, seeing a marching band lead a parade. He smiled at the sight, he loved parades. But, he couldn't stay and watch. He shut the door and opened it again, revealing none other than the gorilla, who roared and began to chase them again.

Finally, the day of work was done, the little girl had her doll back, and all the guests had returned to their rooms.

"Well, that's my job!" Micky said as he and Peter went back up to Micky's room. Peter smiled. "You sure do meet a lot of characters in this line of work," he said. Micky nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty fun," he said. "Especially when you have somebody helping you. Thanks, Peter." "Oh, it was nothing," Peter said. "I didn't exactly have anywhere to be anyway. I had fun."

"Great," Micky said. "Now, I'm hungry. Let's go down and get some dinner." "Micky, wait!" Peter said, stopping Micky from running out the door. "Micky, I can't eat here again, I'd have to stay again and work tomorrow!" Micky snapped his fingers. He'd been hoping to trick Peter into staying.

"But, I thought you said you didn't mind!" He said. Peter smiled. "I didn't mind working this once," he said. "But I can't stay here forever. It was just one night, remember?"

Micky sighed. "Yeah, I remember," he said. "But it's so much more fun when somebody helps you, y'know?" Peter nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said. "But nothing lasts forever, and the road is calling. Thanks for the good time, Micky. I'll never forget you."

Picking up his bass, Peter walked to the door and then turned around. "Say goodbye to Aunt Franny for me, will ya?" He said. Micky nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Goodbye, Peter."

Peter turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Micky sat down on the couch, sighing. He should have expected this, it really was too good to last. Besides, he had only met the man yesterday. It wasn't like they were best friends or anything. Yeah, they barely even knew each other.

People come into your life for a reason and a season, his mother had always said. He shouldn't feel too bad that Peter hadn't stayed, he should be happy for the day he'd known him.

Standing up and walking over to his window, he pulled aside the curtains. The sounds of the city drifted up through the broken glass as Micky watched Peter step out of the hotel and begin walking down the street.

Stopping at the street corner, Peter looked back at the hotel, frowning in thought. Suddenly, a man came from around the corner, looking over his shoulder as he talked to a man behind him.

Not paying attention to where he was going, the man knocked into Peter. "Wha-!" The man sputtered, turning towards Peter. "Why don't you watch where you're going, young man!?" Peter smiled. "Sorry," he said. "I'll try and be more careful in the future." "Well, you'd better!" The man growled as he continued walking.

Peter looked after him for a moment, and then turned and ran back to the hotel.

Micky grinned, and then he ran back to the couch, sitting down and trying to look glum, so Peter wouldn't know he'd been spying on him.

After a few moments, he heard Peter's footsteps running up the stairs and he burst into Micky's room, panting. "Hey, Micky," he said. "I, um, if it's alright, I wouldn't mind staying here in Ventura, at least for a little while." "Oh, Peter! That's great!" Micky said, jumping up from his seat. "I mean, really, that's great! We're gonna have so much fun together, I mean it! Now, let's go get some dinner!"

"Wait," Peter said, once again stopping Micky from running through the door. "What now?" Micky said. Peter swallowed. "If I'm going to stay here, I need to get a real job. I can't just keep helping you in return for dinner. I need to ask your boss for a real job here at the hotel." "Oh, okay," Micky said. "Let's go talk to him then." Turning around, Micky led the way to the office where Mr. Spiner spent his time at the hotel.

Knocking on the door, they heard a "Come in!" From the other side. So Micky pushed the door open and he and Peter went into the office.

"Hello, Mr. Spiner!" Micky said brightly. "This is Peter Tork, he wants to have a job here at the hotel, in return for a place to stay." Mr. Spiner looked at Peter. "Well, Micky," he said. "Your situation is a rather special one, I'm running a hotel, not an apartment complex."

Micky nodded. "I know," he said. "But please, Mr. Spiner, he really wants to stay here in Ventura, and he needs a job and a place to stay. He's a good worker, he's been helping me on the job all day."

Mr. Spiner looked at Peter. "Really?" He asked. "And why did you do that, Mr. Tork?" Peter looked at Micky. "Well," he said. "I needed a place to stay last night, so Micky let me stay in his room, and Aunt Franny gave me a plate of dinner, so I helped Micky with his job to pay for it."

Mr. Spiner laughed. "Well," he said. "If you've already been working for me, I guess there's no reason why I can't let you stay. But here's the deal; I can't afford to rent out another room, so you'd have to board with Micky. Are you alright with that?"

Micky grinned, and Peter nodded. "But, you have to send up an extra bed!" Peter said. Mr. Spiner nodded. "Of course," He said. "And I currently pay Micky here 50 dollars a month, as well as the room and board. I'll do the same for you, too." Micky spoke up then.

"Say, Mr. Spiner," he said. "Since you're getting twice the work, but don't have to pay for an extra room, how about paying Peter 100 dollars a month instead of 50?" Mr. Spiner laughed. "But I still have to pay for the food," he said. "So how about I pay Mr. Tork 85 dollars a month, and since you're now sharing the room and therefore, the rent, I'll raise your monthly wage to 65 a month?"

Micky's eyes grew wide. "Wow, really?" He said. Mr. Spiner nodded. "You do a lot of work for me, Micky," he said. "I've been meaning to give you a raise anyway. A young man needs a bit of spending money, is what I say." Micky smiled. "Thank you, sir!" He said. "Peter will take the job, won't you, Peter?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Before I accept," He said. "I want you to know, Mr. Spiner, that I'm not used to having a steady job. I'm a traveler, and I don't know how long I'm planning on staying in Ventura. I could be here for a week, a month, six months, I really don't know. Are you willing to hire me knowing that I could split any day?"

Mr. Spiner looked thoughtful. "Well, Mr. Tork," He said after a moment. "I admire your honesty. I am still willing to hire you, provided you give me at least a weeks' notice before you leave, if you decided to do so."

Peter nodded. "Okay," he said. "I can do that." "Splendid!" Mr. Spiner said. "Mr. Tork, consider yourself an official employee here at the hotel! It's nice to have you aboard."

Peter smiled and thanked Mr. Spiner as Micky led the way out of the office. "There you have it," he said. "Now you officially work here. _Now_ can we go get some dinner?"

Peter smiled and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Let's go."

Aunt Franny was happy to hear of Peter's decision to remain at the hotel, and served them a desert of their choice, in honor of the occasion. That night, Micky once again insisted on taking the couch, as the new bed wouldn't be brought up until the next morning.

As Micky drifted off to sleep, he marveled at how lucky he was to have a new friend, and a new room-mate at that. People come into your life for a reason and a season, his mom always said. He sighed happily, wondering what wonderful adventures Peter's presence would bring about.

Whatever they were, he decided, he couldn't wait to start having them.


	3. Black Coffee, Mint Water, and Nightmares

_Notes: At the end of this story, I have the timeline set to __**Present Day.**__ This does not mean our present day, this means the present day of 1966 or 1967, when the Monkees was being aired. The episode referenced in __**Present day**__ 1966 is "Monkees on the Line," one of my favorites._

* * *

**Ventura, CA, three years and four months prior:**

Peter had been working at the hotel for about two months now, and was settling down into routine life quite nicely. Since he didn't have school, he worked at the hotel during the day while Micky was gone, and When Mr. Spiner heard about this, he raised Peter's salary to 100 dollars a month, to pay for the extra hours.

He had to admit, hiring Peter had been a good decision. Peter was friendly, polite, and easy going, and he never got into fights with the guests. Mr. Spiner had quickly learned this, and had since put this trait to good use, sending Peter to handle the less-than-pleasant guests, as the other day-shift concierges couldn't handle the unfair accusations and rude comments from the demanding higher-ups.

Peter never complained about the arrangement, particularly because he didn't know that it was done on purpose. He assumed that it was just his luck that he always got called to the rooms housing the insulting snobs.

One such call came in and Peter sighed as he walked up the steps to the second floor. He had already been sent to attend to this particular guest three times that morning, and had learned very quickly what to expect.

He knocked politely on the door, the way he was supposed to, and entered upon command. The man inside was in his late fifties, scowling up at Peter as he sat on the couch.

"Good day, sir," Peter said, smiling as well as he could. "In what way may I be of assistance to you?"

"Took you long enough to get here," the man snapped. "Go down to the kitchen and get me a cup of coffee, black. I ordered it from room service ten minutes ago and haven't gotten it yet. I have a terrible headache and I need something to pep me up before I leave, I've got a very important meeting."

Peter waited patiently as the man talked, you were never supposed to leave while the guests were still talking.

"Lousy bed kept me up all night," the man was saying. "Springs poking up at my back, the whole night through! Woke up with a crik in my neck the size of Alabama! Well, what are you still doing here!? Coffee, NOW!"

The man glared up at Peter, who apologized and went back downstairs. Going into the kitchen, Peter smiled at Aunt Franny.

"Sorry to bother you," He said. "But I need a cup of coffee, black, for the guest in room 16." Aunt Franny smiled at Peter and handed him a cup of coffee, already made. "Did he send you all the way down here for that?" She said. "Silly man! The call came in only a few minutes ago, I would have sent it up as room service in a moment!"

Peter laughed. "Well, he's in a hurry, apparently. Has a headache." Aunt Franny pouted. "Oh dear!" she said. "Well, we can't have that! Do me a favor, dear, when you get back up there, ask him if he'd like a bit of mint in hot water, gets rid of headaches like they're nothing at all!"

Peter smiled. "I will," he said. "Thank you, Aunt Franny!"

He took the coffee and climbed back up to room 16. He knocked on the door and waited. "Come in!" He heard from the other side, so he opened the door and stepped into the room. "Here's your coffee, sir!" He said. "And the cook would like to offer you some mint in hot water, she said it's great for headaches!"

"Oh, so you were gossiping about me to the staff," The man said angrily. "No wonder it took you so long!"

Peter shook his head. "Oh, no sir," he said. "I wasn't gossiping, I just said-" "I don't care what you said!" The man exclaimed. "I've had enough! Rotten furniture, terrible service..." The man took a big gulp of coffee and then spit it out, right on the carpet. "And terrible coffee!" He finished.

"Go downstairs and fetch me the manager!" He said. "I want to have a few words with him about this horrible excuse for a hotel, and just you wait, sonny, I won't leave your part of the story out. AND DON'T EXPECT A TIP!"

With that he shoved Peter out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Peter stood outside for a moment, trying to calm himself down. He hated it when people treated him like that. Then, taking a deep breath, he went down to Mr. Spiner's office. He knocked and when Mr. Spiner called him in, he entered.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," he said. "But the guest in room 16 would like to speak with you." Mr. Spiner sighed. "Is it one of_ those_ kinds of guests?" He asked. Peter nodded, swallowing. "Yes sir," He said.

Mr. Spiner got up from his desk and put on his glasses before passing Peter and leaving the office. "Don't worry, Peter," he said. "Your job is secure, I won't believe a word he says."

Peter let out a small sigh of relief. No matter how often things like this happened, he was always afraid that Mr. Spiner would fire him. Not that he really liked his job, or even really needed the money, although he had his eye on an amp that he could officially afford next month.

He just didn't want to leave Micky. He'd gotten used to having him around, it was like living with a hyperactive little brother, something that Peter had always wanted. Micky was the only reason Peter stayed, if he lost his job he would probably take off again, go for a walk until he couldn't walk any further, and see where he ended up.

He followed Mr. Spiner up to room 16 and stood back a little ways as Mr. Spiner knocked. The door opened and the man stood glaring at Mr. Spiner.

"You the manager?" He asked gruffly. "Yes, I am," Mr. Spiner said. "I understand you wanted to speak with me?"

"You're durn right I want to speak with you!" The man said angrily. "You, sir, are one lousy excuse for a manager! The furniture is old and falling apart, the food is mediocre at best, the service," Here he pointed at Peter, who remained in the hallway behind Mr. Spiner. "Is slow and when I finally get what it is I asked for, which took ten minutes, by the way, I find out that your employees gossip about your customers instead of performing their duties!"

The man glared at Mr. Spiner for a second. "I'll have you know," he said. "That I'm never going to stop at this hotel again. You have lost a paying customer, sir, and what's more, I'm going to speak of this place to my associates, I will warn them about this place. I will make sure that they know never to stop here!"

He nodded his head to illustrate his resolve. "What do you say to that?" He said. Mr. Spiner hung his head in mock repentance. "I plan on addressing the problems you mentioned," he said. "And I offer you my sincerest apologies on your bad experience."

"Well, now, that's better!" The man said. "But regardless! I expect a full refund, and an apology from this young man-" he nodded towards Peter. "As well as from the cook."

Mr. Spiner stifled a laugh. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "But I'm afraid we don't give refunds." "WHAT!?" The man exclaimed. "No refunds! That is unacceptable! This hotel was not worth what I paid you! I demand a refund!"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we don't give refunds," Mr. Spiner said. "Whether or not you accept it or not, that is our policy." The man, now red in the face, huffed angrily and turned away. "Very well," he said. "I will at least be given an apology for the atrocious behavior displayed by your staff!"

Peter was about to step up to apologize when Mr. Spiner held up his hand, stopping him. "Sir," he said, addressing the man. "I must tell you, I am not in the habit of forcing my staff to apologize to anyone, and I will not do so now."

"Wha-! But- I-" The man sputtered, getting even more red faced than ever. "I DEMAND AN APOLOGY!" He shouted. Peter couldn't take it. He hated conflict, he really did. It was so... conflicting. Much better to just accept the blame and make the world a little bit more peaceful.

He stepped up past Mr. Spiner and said quietly "It's alright, Mr. Spiner, I really don't mind." Then he looked up at the man. "I'm sorry for my..." Now, what was the word the man had used? Ah yes! "Atrocious behavior, I really am, and I promise, it won't happen again!" The man looked at him.

"Well, it certainly won't!" He snapped. "As I am never returning here! I'd wish you a good day, sir, except for I don't!" With that, the man slammed the door in their faces, going to pack up his luggage to leave.

Mr. Spiner sighed. "You didn't have to apologize, Peter," he said. "It wasn't your fault and you know it!" Peter shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "I just hate fighting." Mr. Spiner smiled. "I know you do, Peter," he said. "You're a good kid. If all the people in the world were like you, the world would be a happy place."

* * *

That night, Peter dreamed that he was working at the concierge desk. A call came in and he responded, walking up a long flight of stairs that lasted for miles. He reached the top and walked down a long hallway, stopping at a door at the very end of the hall. He knocked three times and the sound echoed throughout the building, booming like thunder.

"Come in..." A deep voice came from the other side of the door, and Peter stepped through to find himself in a smoky room, with lots of people he couldn't recognize. Their features were hidden by the smoke, but they all started yelling at him.

They were yelling and jeering and complaining and griping, he was a bad concierge, he was a lousy serviceman, he was to run down and fetch this, he was to climb up and reach that, the room was too cold, the sheets were too scratchy, the food was too bland.

The smoke began to clear and he could see the faces of the guests, they were all guests that he had served over the past two months, their features grossly exaggerated, all of them still yelling and jeering and complaining and griping.

Their voices got louder and louder, and a new face joined their midst. It was the guest from room 16, red-faced and glaring. "Apologize!" He yelled. "Apologize!" The rest of the guests took up his cry, yelling "Apologize! Apologize! Apologize!"

He covered his ears, trying to block out the sound, but it didn't work. They all were clamoring for him to apologize, yelling over each other, their voices overlapping until all he could hear was an ocean of discontent, demanding he apologize. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry!" They continued to yell, and he said it a bit louder. "I'm sorry!"

He paused. He thought he'd heard someone calling his name, but he couldn't hear anything over the sound of the guests.

"I'm sorry," He called out, just a little bit louder. They didn't stop. "I'm sorry!" He cried out. "Peter!" He stopped. He definitely heard someone calling his name, but they sounded so far away. The guests were still demanding his attention, and his apologies.

"I'm sorry!" He yelled. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" "PETER!"

Suddenly, he was in his room. It was dark and he was sitting up in his bed, and Micky was standing next to him. He looked confused and a little bit worried. Peter chuckled nervously. "Y-yeah?" He asked. Micky looked at him. "Are you okay? You've been talking in your sleep."

Peter groaned. He knew that he had talked in his sleep sometimes as a child, but he'd been hoping he'd outgrown it. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "It's just, I... well, I - I talk in my sleep sometimes, if I get stressed out during the day." Micky frowned. "Oh," he said. "Okay. Hey, what were you dreaming about?"

Peter shrugged. "Oh, well, uh, I can't remember," he lied. "I never remember my dreams." "Huh..." Micky said. "Well, whatever it was, you kept saying you were sorry. Must've been pretty intense, you started to get a bit loud there at the end."

Peter chuckled. "Well," he said. "Sorry that I woke you. I'm fine, you can go back to bed." Micky yawned. "Alright," he said. "Goodnight, Peter." "Goodnight, Micky," Peter said quietly. He heard Micky fall asleep after a little while, but he didn't go back to sleep the rest of the night. He didn't want to risk talking in his sleep again.

Besides, he wasn't sure he could trust his dreams to be pleasant. But, tomorrow would be a whole other day, hopefully things would be better when the sun rose. And even if the new day brought only more sorrow, things would still get better eventually. Things always do.

* * *

**Malibu, CA, present day:**

Peter was in a large room, with tables lined up as far as the eye could see, and telephones on every table. Suddenly, the air was rent with the sound of ringing, ringing everywhere, pounding in his ears, coming from all directions.

He ran to the nearest phone and answered it. "Urgent Answering Service, who's calling?" All he could hear on the other end was more ringing. He set the phone down and picked up another one. "Urgent Answering Service, who's calling?"

No response, and the ringing was getting louder. He left the line open, holding the phone away, he picked up another one, and repeated the same line.

He did this over and over again, and every time he picked up a phone, the ringing grew louder instead of stopping. Soon, every phone in the room was ringing, until he couldn't hear anything but the sound of telephones.

They seemed to have voices, the telephones were calling his name. No wait, someone else was calling his name. The ringing started to fade somewhat and the room went black. "Peter?" Yes, definitely, someone was calling his name. "Peter!" No, wait, two different people were calling his name. One of them had an accent

He looked around the black that had taken place of the large room. "Where am I?" He asked. "You're right here," The first voice answered. "Where's here?" He asked. "Well, at the answering service!" The voice with the accent spoke up. Suddenly, there was a ringing phone next to Peter. Picking up the receiver, he held it up to his ear and said "Urgent Answering Service, who's calling?"

"Peter, It's Micky and Davy," said the second voice. Huh. Someone actually responded this time. "Davy and Micky aren't here right now, can I take a message?" Peter said.

"Peter, PETER, WAKE UP!" The black cleared away, the phone disappeared, and Peter found himself back at the Urgent Answering Service headquarters.

Looking over, he saw Micky and Davy looking at him. Micky was smiling slightly, while Davy, who shared a room with Peter and knew that he talked in his sleep sometimes, looked annoyed. Peter decided to joke it off.

"Oh, hi guys!" He said smiling. "Hey, there was just a call for you." "Thanks," Micky mumbled as Davy rolled his eyes. "Peter, what happened?" He asked. Peter shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I just pushed this red button..."

"Which red button?" They both asked. "That one right there!" He said pointing. "That one over there?" They both asked again. Peter nodded and they both turned towards the wall with the red button on it. Smiling, he fell backwards onto the bed. It really was quite comfortable.

"This one over here?" Micky asked. "That's right!" Peter said, pointing as he got comfortable. As expected, Micky pushed the button and the retractable bed went back into the wall. Peter smiled in the darkness. He knew that they would pull him out soon enough, but until they did, he was going to finish his nap.


	4. The Little Drummer Boy

_Notes: Merry Christmas! And yeah, I know it's not actually Christmas yet, but I always get into a Christmas mood around this time of year, so I went with it._

_I actually don't know much about amplifiers or drum sets, so if you do know about such thing, and I get some information wrong here, please feel free to point it out to me so I can change it. I want to make my stories as realistic as possible. Even if it is the Monkees. XD_

* * *

**Ventura, CA, three years and three months prior:**

It was officially wintertime in Ventura, and Peter shivered as he walked the six blocks from the hotel to the music store. He finally had enough money for the amplifier, and he was going to buy it. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. He had been saving his money for this very purpose, he wanted an amplifier. He was tired of not playing any music.

But as he reached the music store, he sighed, reminded of the reason he was having second thoughts about the amp. Christmas decorations covered the inside of the store, he could see them through the window. As he went inside, he could hear an old Connie Francis Christmas record being played on the record player behind the counter.

"Hello," the cashier said, coming up to Peter. "Here to buy a record for someone, they make nice gifts!" He said cheerfully. Peter opened his mouth to say "No, I want to buy an amplifier all for myself!" But instead ended up choking back the words. Trying again, he said "No, I'm just looking around right now."

The cashier nodded. "Well, if you need anything, let me know," he said before walking up to another customer.

Peter nodded and browsed around for a while, looking through the records and drifting slowly over to where the amp was. It was the one he'd been watching for the past three months, the display model, now the last one in the store. Every other amp had been sold.

He walked over and looked at it, admiring it. It wasn't exactly the best quality, but still, it was an amp, and he could put up with a few kinks, he just wanted to be able to play his bass again.

But every time he went to tell the cashier he wanted to buy it, he kept thinking about Micky.

He wanted to get Micky a Christmas present. And not just any Christmas present, he wanted to get him something really nice. It hadn't taken long for Micky to become Peter's closest friend.

In fact, Micky was the closest friend he'd had in a long time. You didn't exactly make life-long friends hitch-hiking across the country. Usually, you were lucky to strike up a friendship that lasted more than a couple of days.

Peter didn't know whether or not Micky felt the same way about him, in fact, he actually didn't consider himself very high on Micky's list of friends. Micky had grown up in Ventura his whole life, he had school friends that had practically grown up with him, in fact, he was out with some of them right now.

But it didn't matter what Micky thought of _him_, Peter was going to get a nice present for Micky.

Having made up his mind, Peter left the store without looking back, so that he wouldn't be tempted by the amplifier. He still had no idea what to get Micky, but he'd think of something soon.

* * *

Micky tip-toed up to the music store, looking around as he did so, making sure no one saw him. He had told Peter that he was going out with some school friends, but he had just said that so Peter wouldn't be suspicious. Really, he was there for a very specific purpose.

He was going to buy Peter an amplifier for Christmas.

He knew that his friend missed playing his bass, sometimes he would just look at it with so much longing that it almost made Micky want to become a musician, just so he could feel that way too.

But Micky had heard that this music store was selling amplifiers, and so here he was, ready to buy one.

Fortunately for Micky, he peeked into the window before he went inside, for there was Peter, walking around aimlessly, casually glancing at some of the records as he wandered.

What was he doing here? Micky watched as Peter slowly drifted over to the back of the store, where the amplifiers were sure to be kept.

_No... _He thought. _Oh no, please, don't tell me..._

Peter was going to buy an amplifier. Micky was sure of it. Now he would have to think of a whole new present.

_And this one would have been perfect..._

In the three months that they had been room-mates, Peter had quickly climbed up the list of Micky's close friends. In fact, Micky might even go so far as to say that Peter was one of his closest. There was just something likeable about him, you couldn't _not _be his friend if you knew him.

_Wait, what's he doing now?_

Micky looked as Peter walked away from the amplifier, then walked back, then walked away again. He looked to be indecisive about something. He looked behind him one more time, and then clenched his fists and turned towards the door.

_Oh no, he's coming out!_

Micky turned and ran across the street, ducking down behind a newspaper stand right as Peter walked out the door and began to walk back towards the hotel. Micky sighed with relief, he had almost been caught.

But more importantly, Peter hadn't bought the amplifier! Briefly, Micky wondered why, but shook the thought out almost as soon as he'd gotten it. Who cared why Peter hadn't bought it? What mattered was that he didn't, and now Micky could.

Running across the street and into the store, Micky almost ran into the cashier, but stopped himself just in time. "Ah!" The cashier yelled, startled, but then calmed himself and turned to Micky."C-can I help you?" He asked. Micky nodded. "I'm here to buy an amplifier for a friend of mine," he said. "But I don't really know anything about 'em. Can you show me what you've got?"

The cashier nodded. "I'm afraid we don't have much," he said. "Our store is closing down soon, we're on a clearance sale. Everything must go!" He chuckled nervously as he led the way to the back of the room.

"This is our last one," he said, indicating the amp. "It's the display model, so it isn't exactly new, and it's a rather old model anyway. I'm prepared to sell it for almost anything, otherwise, it'll just end up going into storage."

Micky smiled. "Well, how much is an amplifier like this worth?" He asked. The cashier looked at it and scratched his chin. "Usually, I sell amplifiers for around 200 dollars, but like I said, this is an old model, it's the display model, and we're having a clearance sale, so... how does 50 dollars sound?"

"Sounds great!" Micky said. "Tell you what, I don't have that much money with me, but can you hold this for me, I'll go and get some money and then I'll come and get it!"

"Sure, I can do that for you," The cashier said. "Groovy, thanks!" Micky said before speeding off back to the hotel.

Humming a little, the cashier took out a small sign that read "SOLD" and set it down in front of the amplifier. He loved the holiday season.

As Micky rounded the corner, he suddenly registered that Peter was standing there. He skidded to a stop, and managed to slow down enough to not bowl Peter over like he had when they first met, and instead just knocked into him. "Whoa, sorry-" Peter began instinctively, turning around. When he saw who it was, however, he shook his head. "Micky," He said, smiling. "You really should stop running everywhere you go, one day you'll run into someone other than me, and they might get mad."

"Yeah, well, you should really stop standing on street corners," Micky said, pretending to get defensive. "Maybe people won't run into you so much." Peter blinked. "You know, I'll bet you're right," he said. "Course I am!" Micky said. He needed to think of a way to keep Peter away from the hotel, so he could bring the amp here.

"So," he said. "What'cha up to?" Peter put his hands in his pockets. "Nothing," he said. Micky looked up at him. The face he was making was a new one to Micky. Peter was staring straight ahead, lips pursed, as he stood, slightly rocking back and forth.

"You've got a secret!" Micky guessed. Peter looked down at him. "What?" He said. Micky chuckled. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. "Nothing," he said. "It's just, the face you were making, it looked like you were hiding something."

And now Peter looked guilty. Yeah, he was definitely hiding something. Micky smiled. He just hoped his facial expressions weren't as visible, or he'd have a hard time trying to convince Peter to clear out.

"Eh, I must be imagining things," he said. "Anyway, you hungry?" Peter looked relieved at the change of subject and nodded. "Uh, yeah, I guess so. Want to go get dinner?""SURE!" Micky yelled, running to the hotel as fast as he could. "Hey, wait!" Peter called, confused by Micky's behavior. He started to run too, but he wasn't as fast as Micky.

Micky burst through the hotel doors and tore through the lobby into the kitchen. "Oh!" Aunt Franny exclaimed as Micky came speeding in. She dropped her dish towel and put her hand up to her heart. "Micky!" She said. "Don't come tearing in here like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry, but I need you to keep Peter distracted while I buy his Christmas present and hide it upstairs!" Micky said quickly. "I had to be fast, he's right behind me!"

"Oh," Aunt Franny said as soon as she processed Micky's speed talk. "Well, of course dear! Consider it done!"

Just then Peter rushed into the room, panting. "Micky," he said. "Why... why'd you run? I don't... I don't know why you have to run everywhere!" "Oh, gee, you're right, Pete!" Micky said quickly. "Walking'll get me where I'm going just fine, I don't really need to run anywhere!" Peter nodded. "Yeah," he said. "That's right- Hey, where're you going!?"

"I'm gonna go for a walk!" Micky said, walking over to the door as quickly as he could without running. "Don't wait for me, you go ahead and get your dinner. I'll be back before you can say meatloaf!"

The door swung closed and Aunt Franny handed Peter a plate. He looked over at the door and sighed. "Meatloaf," he said, walking over to the table.

* * *

Micky stopped walking as soon as he was sure Peter wasn't following him. He tore up the stairs to his room and grabbed fifty dollars from his special hiding place, and then he tore back down the stairs, through the front doors, and down the six blocks to the music store.

"Why, hello," the cashier said, after getting over being startled by Micky's entrance. "You here for the amplifier?" He asked. Micky nodded. Even though he ran all the time, he was beginning to tire out.

"Well, here you are!" The cashier said, handing Micky a box. Micky took it and handed the man his fifty dollars. "Here you go," he said. The man counted it up and put it in the register. "Do you want a receipt?" He asked. "No," Micky said. "He might find it, and then he'd know what I was getting him!"

The man nodded. "Alright," he said. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, have a nice day, and happy holidays!"

"You too," Micky called over his shoulder, already running through the door, this time with a semi-heavy box.

When he got to the hotel, he ran up to his room and set the amp down on the ground. He looked at it, smiling. Peter would be so happy.

"Micky?" Micky gasped as he heard Peter coming up the stairs. He had to hide it, he had to hide it... but where? Their room was small, not a lot of hiding places. Pulling one of the sheets off his bed, Micky draped it across the amp and sat down on the couch right as Peter opened the door.

"I thought I saw you coming in," he said. "What's going on, why are you acting so strange?"

"Strange?" Micky squealed. "I'm not acting-Ahem!" He cleared his throat and continued talking, lowering his voice. "I'm not acting strange," He said. "_You're_ the one acting strange, what with your questions and all that! Why are _you_ acting strange?"

Peter frowned, confused. "Huh?" He asked. Micky rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about your behavior, mister!" He said, standing up. "Hanging around street corners, following me around, asking ridiculous questions! And you call me strange!"

Peter continued frowning, trying to make some sense of what Micky was saying. "Well, gee, Mick, I'm sorry," He said finally, his smile coming back. "I didn't mean to do any of that stuff, I'll stop acting strange."

"That's all I ask," Micky said graciously. Peter smiled and then noticed the amp with the blanket over it. "Well hey, what's that?" He asked curiously.

"There you go asking more of those ridiculous questions!" Micky exclaimed, rushing over to the amp and sitting on it before Peter could move the blanket.

"Why, don't tell me you've never seen a, uh..." Now what were those chairs called again, his mom had some in her living room, simple square chairs, pretty low to the ground... "Ottoman!" He yelled out. "Don't tell me you've never seen an ottoman before!"

Peter blinked, and then shrugged. "Actually, I haven't," He admitted, still smiling. "what is it?"

Micky laughed. "What is it?" he repeated. "What is it, the boy asks!" He laughed some more and looked around at an imaginary audience before addressing Peter the way one might speak to a child who didn't know what a fork was. "What it is, Peter, is a chair. You sit on it."

Peter nodded. "Alright," he said. "Sorry I didn't know, I've just... never heard of it before."

"Well, you've heard of it now!" Micky said, launching into a salesman's speech endorsing the ottoman he was(n't) sitting on.

"It's the one piece of furniture every living space needs, it's small, easily stored out of sight to make room for parties, or bridge games, or dancing!"

He jumped up and did a few steps of some weird dance he was making up.

"It's also comfortable, it's been endorsed by all those TV personalities you've come to know and love!" He grabbed Peter's shoulders and shoved him towards the amp, pushing him down to sit on it.

"Well?" He said dramatically. "Tell me, sir, that you are in agreement with all those haute couture somebody's, those who judge comfort on a day-to-day basis! Those great minds of our time!"

"Actually, it seems a little hard," Peter said. Micky paused. "Well, like I said, _great_ minds..." He said, before continuing.

"There's no end to the never-ending abilities performed by the ottoman! Why, it even makes a good drum!" He ran over and rapped his hands on the amp in a fast beat, keeping time with his foot.

"Say, you're actually pretty good!" Peter said, his eyes wide.

"Yeah, I know, I get it from my mother," Micky said, believing Peter to be talking about his impersonation of a salesman. Peter smiled. "Wow," he said. "And here I though you weren't much into the whole music scene."

"Music!?" Micky asked, confused. When did they get on music? Peter nodded and Micky shrugged. Better to not question Peter's odd comments. They usually made some semblance of sense to Peter, but nobody else.

"Ah well," he said. "Like I told you before, when I get old enough, I'm going to move out to LA to be discovered. My name will be up in lights, and everybody will come from miles around to see me perform!"

Peter nodded. "Well, you definitely need practice," he said. "And some equipment. But you'll definitely make it, I think you've got some real talent there!"

Micky wasn't sure whether to be offended or flattered. He'd been practicing his impressions all his life, and how much equipment did one need to perform a comedic routine?

"Uh, thanks..." He said. "Anyway, I'm starving. I know you already ate, but I'm gonna go get some dinner. Whatever you do, don't take the cover off the ottoman! It ruins the stuffing something awful!"

Peter nodded and Micky left, feeling pretty good about how everything had gone down.

* * *

Peter looked at the ottoman for a second and then shook his head. It really was an awful chair, it wasn't comfortable at all. Micky had told him not to take the cover off, but he really had been worried over nothing. Peter had no intention of doing anything with that ottoman.

It had given him an idea, however. Grabbing the money he had been saving for the amplifier, he went down to the lobby and peered into the kitchen door to make sure Micky was there.

He was there alright, laughing with Aunt Franny and saying something about a blanket. Peter smiled as he left. If Micky was telling one of his stories, than Peter had plenty of time to go down to the store and get what he needed.

When he reached the music store, the cashier came up to him and smiled. "Well, decide to buy something after all?" Peter smiled. "Yes," He said. "I want to buy a set of drums for my room-mate. What do you have?"

The man sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have a full set," he said. "We're closing down the store soon, and I've been selling everything I can. The last drum kit I have is missing a snare drum, it was a display model and got broken."

Peter frowned. "Well, can I see the set? I might be able to get another snare somewhere else." The man nodded. "I suppose you could do that," he said. "Follow me."

He led the way through a door in the back of the store, and Peter saw some boxes stacked up against one wall, and a drum kit stacked up next to them. He walked up to the set and picked up one of the tom-toms.

It definitely was a low-quality set, and used. The black paint coating the set was chipped in a few places, and the drum itself was fairly weak, but it was an alright set for a beginner. Micky could learn to play on these, and maybe one day they could buy a nicer set.

"How much is it?" He asked. The man thought for a moment. "Let's see," he said. "Damaged display model, low quality set to begin with... I'll give it to you for 35 dollars." Peter smiled. "35 Dollars!?" He said. "I'll take it!" He was about to pull the money out of his pocket when he paused. With the drum set being so cheap, he could probably afford the amplifier as well.

"I'd also like to buy an amplifier," he said. "Where do you keep those?" "Oh, oh dear..." The man said, the smile on his face fading to an apologetic look. "I'm afraid I sold my last amplifier today. I'm so sorry..."

Peter tried to not look disappointed. "Oh, that's alright," he said. "It's not your fault someone beat me to it." He pulled the money out of his pocket and counted out 35 dollars.

"Here you go," he said. "Say, my place is kind of small, I can't hide a drum set in there without my room-mate finding it. Is it alright if I leave it here, and I'll come get it a few days before Christmas?"

"Of course," he said. "Would you like a receipt?" Peter nodded and followed the man up to the register to get it. After he got the receipt, he walked back to the hotel. He would have to get a snare drum before Christmas, but at least he had the majority of Micky's present ready for him.

* * *

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, and Micky woke up with the sun, excited for the day. Today, he would give Peter his amplifier, and then they were going to have a Christmas breakfast with Aunt Franny.

After breakfast, they were going to work a half-day at the hotel, because even though Christmas was the busiest time of the year for them, Mr. Spiner never made anyone work a full day on a holiday. After work and a light lunch, they were going to join Micky's family for a day of celebration.

Micky had told his mom about Peter, and how he was from Connecticut and didn't have anywhere to go for Christmas. His mom had promptly insisted that Micky bring Peter to their house, as she believed that no one should be alone on Christmas.

At first, Peter had been reluctant to accept Micky's invitation, but the younger boy had finally convinced him to go by telling him that he always brought friends over to his house for Christmas. This wasn't entirely true, but Peter wouldn't have known that, and what Peter didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

So, the day was planned, and Micky was ready to get started, despite the early hour. Sitting up in bed and getting ready to wake up Peter, he stopped. The entire room was filled with Christmas decorations.

Gold and silver garland hung from the ceiling, there were wreaths hung on the window and the door, a row of about sixteen red and green wool stockings was stretched along the kitchen counter, and in the corner, there stood a large tree.

It was decorated with tons of gold, red, and silver bulbs, reflecting the light from a string of white Christmas lights. There were small crystal snowflakes hung amidst the bulbs, and a layer of silver tinsel was gracefully draped over the lot of it, causing the tree to sparkle.

On top of the tree was a large metal-wrought star, glittering brightly. It was gold and silver itself, and it matched the rest of the decorations perfectly.

But what really surprised Micky was the set of drums in the middle of the room. They were set up already, and even though Micky hadn't ever really played the drums before, seeing them there amidst the pretty decorations gave him a little bit of a thrill. He got up and walked over to them, reaching out with his finger to touch them and see if they were real.

They were, and the feel of the shiny black side felt nice and cool. He walked around and looked at the set. They were all black, except for one drum, which was a glittery gold color, like the rest of the decorations. He smiled.

But the question remained, what were they doing here? And not just the drums, all the decorations, the tree, everything. How had it gotten here? It certainly hadn't been here when he went to bed.

He knew it wasn't his mom, there was no way she would have snuck into his apartment in the middle of the night just to decorate the place.

It couldn't have been Aunt Franny, she never went up stairs. It hadn't been Mr. Spiner, Micky knew he had his own holiday tradition, which required he spend the night out on the town, not at his own house or at the hotel.

And he hadn't believed in Santa Claus since he was 8 years old and had seen his mother wrap his presents and hide them under the tree. That left only one person.

He looked over at Peter, who was dead asleep on his bed. He was still dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing the day before, shoes and everything, and he had tinsel in his hair.

Micky laughed. Of course Peter had stayed up all night to surprise him with the decorations. In the three and a half months since he'd known the boy, Micky could tell that Peter was that kind of person.

He turned back to the drums. They were probably Peter's present to him, which meant that somehow, Peter had gotten the idea that Micky wanted them. Micky wasn't exactly sure how Peter had gotten that idea, but it was a nice present.

He was used to getting sweaters from his mother and sweets from his sister, it was nice to get something that wouldn't be either something to wear, or something to eat.

Besides, the more he thought about drumming, the more he liked the idea. He _did_ have a pretty good sense of rhythm, and he'd always liked hearing the percussion on any records he heard.

Yeah, he would learn to be a drummer! Now thoroughly psyched about the drums, Micky wasted no time in sitting down and picking up the drumsticks. He held them in his hands for a moment, not really having any idea how to play.

"Well," he said to himself. "It can't be _that_ hard."

After a few moments of randomly hitting the drums, he heard Peter wake up. "Micky!" He said, "What are you doing!?" Micky grinned. In just the few moments he'd played, he already wouldn't trade the drums for anything in the world. It was like he'd found a piece of himself, a piece that he hadn't even known was missing.

"I'm playing the drums!" He said happily. "This is amazing! Thanks, Peter, I love 'em!" Peter smiled. "I'm glad you like them, Micky," he said. "But you really shouldn't be playing them right now. You'll wake up the guests."

* * *

To say Peter was surprised to find that the uncomfortable ottoman was really the amplifier he had wanted was an understatement. After he had explained to Micky about the decorations (The cashier at the music store had given them to Peter free of charge, as the store wouldn't be opening again and he didn't need them), Micky had jumped up and ripped the blue sheet off of the square box and gave it to Peter to open.

Peter had been entirely speechless for the rest of the morning, and had sat smiling and staring at his new amp while Micky chattered endlessly about his new drumset and all the fun they would be having that day.

Aunt Franny served them a wonderful breakfast of cinnamon pancakes and sausage and eggs and fresh fruit. Micky was disgusted to see Peter pour maple syrup on everything, not just the pancakes, but Peter convinced him to try it out, and it actually tasted pretty good.

They had an easy day of work, because even though the hotel was very busy, all the guests were touched by the magic of the Christmas Spirit, and were pleasant, patient, and happy.

After work, they took off for Micky's house. "Are you sure it's alright that I come?" Peter asked nervously as they walked up the walkway to the front door. "Of course it's alright," Micky said. "They're gonna love you!"

Without knocking, Micky opened the door and stepped inside, and the two of them were blasted with the sounds of Christmas music and the smell of turkey, as well as a voice yelling "MICKYYYYY!" A 13 year-old girl came running around the corner, and tackled Micky in a bear hug.

Micky laughed. "Hi, Jenna," he said. "Merry Christmas!" "Merry Christmas!" She said back before taking off to another room. "Mom! Dad!" She yelled. "Micky's here!"

Soon Micky's parents came out to give their son a hug, and Micky's mom gave Peter a hug as well. "It's nice to meet you, Peter!" She said. "Micky's told us so much about you!"

Peter grinned, no longer feeling quite so nervous. "Thank you," he said. "He's told me a lot about you as well!" "Well, isn't that nice!" Micky's mom said. "What kinds of things has he told you?" She looked at Micky who smiled nervously. Peter shrugged. "Just the usual stuff," he said. "He says you're a great cook." Micky's mom smiled. "Well, not to toot my own horn," she said. "But he was right. Come into the dining room, dinner's almost ready!"

Peter had a great time, he fell in love with Micky's family, and they absolutely fell in love with him. After dinner, they went Christmas Caroling, and Peter discovered that Micky had a great singing voice, and that he had inherited it from his dad. When they got back to the house, they all sipped hot cocoa and opened presents while Peter watched.

He was having a grand time just watching, he hadn't expected any of them to get him anything, which was why he was surprised when two packages were handed to him. He looked at them for a second, just staring at his name written on them. "They're for you, silly," Jenna said. "Open them already!" He felt his smile slip onto his face as he opened the first, which was a brown paper bag filled with salt-water taffy from Jenna.

"Thanks," he said. "How did you know I liked salt-water taffy?" Jenna smiled. "I didn't," she said. "I just bought an extra bag when I got Micky's share." Micky, who'd already opened his presents, nodded, his cheeks bulging with the sweets. "Well, thank you!" Peter said before turning to the other present. Opening it, he found an ivory colored sweater, with gold braiding going down the front.

He turned and smiled at Micky's mom, who was glowing herself. "Thank you, Mrs. Dolenz," he said. "Oh, please!" The woman said merrily. "Just call me mom. That's what all of Micky's friends call me." Peter's smile turned into a grin. "Alright... mom..." he said, trying it out. "Thanks, I love it!"

As the night went on and Micky's family all talked and laughed and had a generally good time, Peter couldn't wipe the smile off his face. Today had been the best Christmas he'd had in a long time, and although the amplifier, the taffy, and the sweater had all been great presents, he felt that he'd gotten an even better gift. He had a new family.


	5. Tork and Dolenz, Micky and Pete

_Notes: This story is about how Micky and Peter decided to do an act together, and how they got their name. It's also to explain a slight discrepancy on my part as far as the title. In the story Lone Star and Union Jack, Crystal Rose of Pollux wrote Micky and Peter's act out as "The Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer." Me, being the way I am, forgot to double check the placement of the names when I went to post the story, and posted them the other way around, "The California Dreamer and the Connecticut Yankee." So I wrote this out the way I did so that both ways would be correct, in a manner of speaking. Whenever Micky and Peter go to a gig, or whenever they introduce themselves by the name of their act, they will do so the way Crystal Rose of Pollux wrote it. But whenever Peter thinks of the act, he will refer to it the way I mistakenly wrote it in the title._

_Also, I have made some changes to the timeline of the fic, adding six months to each story, so that my timeline will match the timeline in Lone Star and Union Jack. Sorry for the confusion, I'll try to stop changing things after I posted them. XD_

* * *

**Ventura, CA, three years and two months prior:**

Micky had been playing the drums for two months now, and he was getting pretty good. Although Mr. Spiner had told him flatly that he could not play his new instrument in his room, as live drumming sessions would invariably irritate the guests, he had provided an area in the basement where Micky and Peter could play their instruments to their hearts' content.

Since that moment, Micky had played every spare moment he could get. He had absolutely fallen in love with the drums. Sometimes he would get so wrapped up in playing that he would forget to go up and get dinner, and Aunt Franny would send Peter down to remind him what time it was.

Sometimes, however, Peter would be right down there with him, accompanying the drums on his bass, and both boys would play through dinner and late into the night.

"You know, Micky, you're getting pretty good," Peter said one night, as he plucked away on his bass. "Thanks," Micky said, keeping the time with his drums. "You're pretty amazing on that bass. Where'd you learn to play it?"

Peter shrugged. "I picked it up when I was 12," he said. Micky gaped. "You mean, you just, taught yourself how to play the bass!?" He asked. Peter nodded. "It's really pretty easy to learn, especially if you already play the guitar and piano."

Micky stopped drumming and stared at Peter. Peter turned around. "What's the matter?" He asked. "Why'd you stop playing?" Micky stood up. "Peter!" He said. "You know how to play the guitar and the piano!?" Peter nodded. "Yeah," he said. "So?"

"So!?" Micky exclaimed. "That's amazing! Why didn't you say you knew how to play the guitar and the piano?" Peter shrugged. "It never really came up," he said. Micky shook his head. "Do you know how to play any other instruments?" He asked. Peter smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I can also play the banjo." Micky put his hand on his head.

"You've been holding out on me!" He said. "Now we definitely have to make an act!"

Peter frowned, confused. "What?" He asked. Micky sighed. "I've been thinking," he said, walking up and putting his arms around Peter's shoulder. "You play the bass, and, apparently, the piano, guitar, and banjo, and I play the drums. I'm getting pretty good, and I thought that maybe you and I could do an act!"

Peter thought for a second. "You mean, play our instruments in front of other people for money, like at gigs and stuff?" Micky nodded. "Yup!" He said. "What'd'ya think? You said it yourself, I could really make it someday!"

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "Well, yeah," he said. "I do think you could make it someday, I just... well, I never really thought about actually playing onstage before..."

"Come on, Pete, it'll be fun!" Micky said, looking off into the distance. "Just think what it'll be like, you and me, on a stage. Our names up in lights, a spotlight shining on us as millions of people scream our names, having come from miles around just to see us!"

Peter also looked off into the distance, trying to think of it.

He imagined himself walking out onto a stage, in a tuxedo and a top hat, tripping over something as he walked. He caught himself before he fell, and walked the rest of the way to center stage.

Turning towards the audience, he gave a rigid bow, and then turned towards a grand piano sitting on the stage. He threw his coattails out behind him as he sat, and then wriggled and stretched his gloved fingers.

Right before he started playing, he looked out at the audience. Millions of fans, just like Micky had said. All of them wearing tuxedos and dresses and jewelry and furs, staring and peering at him through opera glasses, watching him disinterestedly, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. He froze. He couldn't play the piano with all these aristocrats scrutinizing his every move.

"Oh, I think I'm gonna be sick," he said. "What!?" Micky exclaimed, backing up a little and holding his hands in the air. Peter took a few deep breaths, looked at Micky, and chuckled. "Stage fright," he said, smiling nervously.

"Isn't that dumb?" Micky asked quietly, more to himself than Peter. To Peter, he said "How do you get stage fright from an imaginary audience?" Peter shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I just did."

Micky sighed. "Well, we'll just have to get you over that stage fright, then," he said. "Because I think we could be great! Now, let's keep practicing."

They practiced for a few more moments, and then Peter stopped playing the bass and yawned. "Hey, what time is it?" He asked. Micky paused in his drumming and looked at his watch. "Oh, it's only 2:27," he said. Peter nodded. "Oh, okay."

It took a second to register, and then Peter snapped his head up and looked at Micky, who gave a small yelp and looked at his watch a second time. "2:27!?" They said together. "But it's Thursday, I mean, it's Friday, and you have school in a few hours!" Peter said, dismayed.

"And we missed dinner!" Micky said. Peter sighed. "Well, we'd better get up to bed, then," he said. "Yeah, no kidding!" Micky set down his drumsticks and stood up from his set.

They climbed from the basement up to the fourth floor and got ready for bed. "Think about what I said!" Micky commanded as he climbed under the covers. "I think we should definitely form an act!"

Peter sighed, getting into his own bed. Truth be told, he didn't know _what_ to think about the idea. He supposed it could be fun, if he got over his apparent stage fright. But he honestly hadn't ever thought about performing before.

Micky began to snore, having fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, and Peter rolled over and looked at him.

The only reason he'd stayed at the hotel that first night was Micky, who was one of the only people he'd met on his cross-country road trip who'd actually taken an interest in his well-being. The only reason he'd decided to stay in Ventura indefinitely was Micky, who seemed upset to see him go. The only reason he hadn't left after the first few months was Micky, who'd introduced him to his family and had shared them with him.

And the only reason he could think of for starting an act with Micky was because Micky wanted him to, and because Peter wanted to help his friend get to that stage that he dreamed about.

As talented as Micky was, he wouldn't get very far on his own. Everybody in comedic show business seemed to have a partner. Abbot and Costello, George Burns and Gracie Allen, Laurel and Hardy, there were always two people.

And if Micky chose to drum his way to the top, well, who'd ever heard of a drummer making records without any other instruments?

No, Micky would have to find somebody to do his act with him. And Peter figured he could deliver. It wasn't as if he would be giving anything up anyway. Peter had no idea what he wanted out of life, which was why he'd gone on that insane road trip anyway. He was just trying to find something, what, he didn't know.

So he decided to go ahead and do that act with Micky. Maybe that would take him to where he was supposed to be.

Having made up his mind, Peter rolled over and went to sleep. He would tell Micky his decision tomorrow.

* * *

When Micky got home from school, he went down into the basement straight away, to practice drumming. Peter was there, lying on the ground and writing something down on a piece of paper.

"Hi, Pete," Micky said. Peter looked up. "Hi, Micky!" He said, smiling. "I've decided, well, I thought, that if you still want to do that act together, I could give it a try!"

Micky grinned. "Pete, that's great!" He said. "We'll be a hit! Oh, it'll be so much fun, everybody's gonna love us, I can't wait to get started! We can go do shows, and we'll get discovered, and we'll make lots of money, and-"

"Micky, Micky!" Peter said, interrupting his friend's speed talk. "We're gonna have to work hard at this if we want it to work, it's not just gonna be all fun and games!"

"Oh, I know," Micky said. Then he really took notice of the piece of paper. "What'cha writing?" He asked. Peter smiled and looked at the piece of paper. "I was trying to think of names for our act," he said. Micky smiled. "Great, read me what'cha got!" He said.

Peter cleared his throat and looked at the piece of paper. "Well, first, I've got Micky and Pete." Micky frowned. "It doesn't flow," he said. "How about Pete and Micky?" Peter tilted his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't really like the sound of that."

"Well, what else have you got?" Micky asked. Peter read the next name off the list. "Dolenz and Tork," he said. Micky shook his head. "No, that doesn't flow either," he said. "How about Tork and Dolenz?" "Micky, are you going to do this with every one of these?" Peter asked. "Sorry," Micky responded. "Read on!"

"Room 113," Said Peter. That was the number of their room. "Sounds groovy, but not as a band name," Micky said.

"Street Corners," Peter read. Micky sighed. "again, not really a band name." He looked over Peter's shoulder and read the next name.

"For the Love of Meatloaf." Micky laughed. "I like it," he said. "But nobody would get it. They might even dismiss our act 'cause of the name."

"The Purple Flower Gang." Micky looked at Peter for a second. "Where did you get a name like _that_!?" He asked. Peter shifted his weight nervously. "I don't know," he said. "It just sounded neat."

Micky thought for a moment. "It does sound pretty neat," he said. "But not for just a two man act. That sounds like a name for a whole group of guys, y'know?"

Peter nodded. "Alright," he said. "The next name on the list is The California Dreamer and the Connecticut Yankee."

"That seems a little bit wordy, don't you think?" Micky asked. Peter shrugged. "I like it," he said. Micky looked at the piece of paper for a minute. "Y'know, it does have a nice ring to it," he said. "But it just doesn't flow right. How about The Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer?"

"Micky!" Peter said, exasperated. "Sorry!" Micky said, jumping up. "But it really does sound better the other way! Come on, please, let's make it The Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer!" Peter pursed his lips. He was suddenly feeling very resolved. California Dreamer should come first.

"Micky," he said. "Can't you just accept it the way it is?" Micky was jumping up and down like a kangaroo. "No," he said. "Not when it would sound so much better the other way! Come on, Peter, really, I know what I'm talking about!"

"Well, I still think California Dreamer should come first," Peter said. "Especially as starting the act was your idea!"

"Yeah, but you came up with the name," Micky said. "So your part should come first!"

"But, if I came up with the name, than we should use my original idea!" Peter said. Micky shook his head.

"But Peter, I know more about show business than you do!" He said. "I mean, I've only been dreaming about it forever, and you said that you hadn't ever thought about it before. So we should go with my name!"

Peter suddenly laughed. Here he was, arguing about something that didn't really matter. The act_ was_ Micky's idea, and he was only doing it for Micky anyway. He might as well let him have his own way as far as the name went.

"Okay, Micky," he said, smiling. "We'll call it the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer."

"YES!" Micky yelled, jumping up into the air before turning and running to his drums. "Now, let's get to work!" He said. "If we're gonna be an act, we've gotta know some real songs."

He looked up at Peter. "We'll start off just playing covers," he said. "Just to get the hang of it. Then we can start writing our own songs as we get inspiration, and integrate them into our set."

Peter smiled and nodded. He'd understood most of what Micky had said, but as Micky had pointed out, he really didn't know much about show business, and was a bit confused as to some of the lingo. So he just agreed blindly. He'd figure it out eventually.

They rehearsed for a half an hour, and then went upstairs to do their shifts at the concierge desk. After work, they grabbed a bit of dinner and told Aunt Franny about their new act, then they went down and rehearsed the whole night through, because the next day was Saturday and Micky wouldn't have school.

When they finally went up to bed at dawn, Peter lay awake a little while longer, thinking about their new act. The Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer. He sighed. Micky could call it what he wanted, but to Peter it would always be the way he'd written it down, The California Dreamer and the Connecticut Yankee. After all, it was all for Micky anyway. He should come first in the name.


	6. Unimaginary Stage Fright

**Ventura, CA, three years and one month prior:**

Micky fidgeted in his seat, tapping his foot and having a sort of rule-less thumb war with himself. It had been a month since he and Peter had decided to have an act, and they were getting ready now to do their first audition.

"Micky, relax," Peter said quietly. "You're making me nervous just looking at you!"

"Sorry, Pete," Micky said. "I can't help it. I'm afraid that if I sit still, my head'll explode." Peter took a deep breath. "Just try to breathe deep," he suggested. "I heard that if you breathe deep, you won't be as nervous about whatever you're about to do."

They both sat there for a few moments, taking huge gasping breaths of air and then letting them out slowly.

"This isn't working," Micky said finally, stopping as Peter continued to gasp and exhale loudly. "I think if I do any more of these, I'm gonna pass out."

People started to look at them strangely as Peter continued trying. One person even came up to them. "Is he, uh... is he alright?" They asked Micky. Micky nodded. "He's just a little nervous," he explained. "Right..." The guy looked at Peter and frowned slightly. "He looks like a dying fish," he announced, then turned and walked away.

Micky sighed. If anyone in the room hadn't already guessed that he and Peter were the new guys to the scene, he'd call them dumber than Peter. Speaking of Peter...

"Knock it off, would you?" He muttered, nudging Peter's side. Peter stopped his gasping and looked at Micky. "Sorry," he said. "I think it was starting to work a little bit. My stomach doesn't feel so weird now."

"Yeah?" Micky asked, more humoring him than really asking. "Well, congratulations, Pete. I'm glad it worked out for you."

"Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer?" The guy with the clipboard called out their name and Micky jumped out of his seat. "Ah!" he said. "That's us! Peter, what are we going to do?" Peter stood up next to him, picking up his bass.

"Let's just take it one step at a time," he said, shaking slightly as he walked up to the man. "We're the Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer," He said. The man smiled. "Ah yes!" He said. "Go right through that door, it leads to the stage."

"Th-thanks..." Peter muttered, turning towards the door. He and Micky stared at it for a split second. "Well," Micky whispered. "There it is... the door to our destiny!"

"Why'd you have to put it like that?" Peter asked as they walked towards the door.

Stepping through, they walked out onto a small stage. In the main part of the room, four people sat a table, two men and two women. The men wore suits while the ladies were dressed in elegant dresses, had their hair up in buns and had jewelry on their wrists and necks.

Peter gulped as Micky pulled his wheeled cart towards one side of the stage and began setting up his drums. He worked quickly, but it seemed like an eternity was spent in preparation.

When he was ready, Micky nodded to Peter and did the count off with his drumsticks, then began playing. He did a good job of it, but Peter didn't come in on the bass. Micky looked up at Peter, who stood completely still, face white and eyes wide.

"Well, I guess he really does get stage-fright," He said as he stopped playing. "Peter! Snap out of it!" Peter blinked and turned to look at Micky. "Huh?" He asked, then seemed to remember where he was. "Oh yeah!" He nodded for Micky to begin and got his fingers in position to play the bass.

Micky counted off with his drumsticks again and this time, Peter came in on the right part. All went well until it came time for Peter to sing. He turned so he could sing into the microphone- and froze as soon as he faced the judges again.

Micky groaned. "This isn't going to work," he said, stopping the beat and standing up. "Thank you for your time," he said to the judges as he began stacking his drums back onto the cart. When he was finished, he grabbed Peter's arm and guided him out of the room. As soon as the judges were out of sight, Peter came to.

"I'm sorry, Micky," He said, looking down at the ground as they walked. "I tried, I really did. I just couldn't help myself. Whenever I saw them watching me, I just... froze."

Micky was trying very hard to be understanding. It wasn't Peter's fault that he got stage fright. "Don't worry, Pete," He said. "We'll get you over this whole stage fright thing soon enough." "How?" Peter asked.

Micky shrugged. "I guess we'll just have to get you used to performing for other people, starting with people you already know."

* * *

The next day, Micky started trying to get Peter over his fear of performing in front of other people by having Mr. Spiner sneak down into the basement during a rehearsal. It had been going well until Peter saw Mr. Spiner.

Than his face went white, his jaw went slack, his eyes went wide and his body got rigid. He stayed that way for five minutes, while Mr. Spiner tried to get him to move. Finally, he left the room and Peter unfroze.

Micky convinced Peter to take their instruments into the kitchen, where they were to play for Aunt Franny. At first it seemed to be working, Peter didn't freeze up, but instead of playing, Peter just stood there breathing deeply until he began to hyperventilate and passed out.

Micky's next bright idea was to bring his family over and have Peter play for them. Peter didn't freeze and he didn't hyperventilate, which was good, but he forgot how to play the bass, which was bad.

"Well, you're making definite progress, at least," Micky said later that night, determined to look on the bright side. Peter sighed. "Sorry I'm doing this," He said glumly. "I know how much this means to you, and I keep messing it up."

"Pete, it's okay," Micky said. "It's not your fault, you can't help yourself." Peter nodded. "I know," he said. "But I just wish I could do this without freezing up or forgetting how to play."

Micky smiled at him, although it wasn't his usual exuberant smile. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Whatever happens happens, just let it come naturally." He looked away and thought. "Hey, Pete?" He said. Peter looked at him. "Hmm?"

"What made you decide to start playing music?" He asked. Peter frowned, thinking. "I don't really know," he admitted. "I don't really remember a time when I didn't love music, I've been singing for as long as I can remember."

"That's cool," Micky said. "But why did you start playing? What made you decide to take up the guitar, and the piano, and everything?"

Peter tilted his head. "Well, I think it was at a performance," He said. "I saw somebody play a song on the piano, and I decided I wanted to be able to do that. So I asked my mom for some piano lessons and she signed me up for a class."

He frowned in thought before continuing. "Then, when I had learned to play the piano for a bit, I decided to try the guitar. It was more difficult to learn than the piano, but I got it down eventually. Then I tried the bass, and then the banjo."

"And in all that time, you never performed for anybody?" Micky asked. Peter shrugged. "Well, when I was in the class, we had a piano rehearsal, but I was sick that day and couldn't make it. Other than that, no. I always practiced in my room or with my teacher."

Micky sighed. "Well, what about on your road trip?" He asked. "You carried that bass around with you everywhere, didn't you ever play in front of people there?"

"Well, yeah, but nobody could hear me, 'cause I didn't have an amp!" Peter said. "Besides, it's different when you're doing it out on the street. Nobody expects you to play, nobody expects you to be any good, nobody expects anything, you can just play whatever you feel like."

"Maybe that's it!" Micky said. "We have to get you to go play on street corners and in bus stations and stuff, so you get used to people watching you play without feeling like they expect something from you!"

Peter frowned. "Do you really think that'll work?" He asked. Micky nodded. "I'm sure it will," he said. "Now, let's go to bed. I'm tired, and you've got a long day of busking ahead of you tomorrow!"

Peter sighed. "If you insist..." he said as they walked up to their room. It didn't sound like a very good idea to him, but then again, Micky probably knew more about this kind of stuff than he did.

* * *

"Alright, Peter, here we are, at the bus station. Nobody's watching, nobody expects anything, they're just going around, minding their own business." Micky had led Peter to the bus station and had set him up with his bass and his amplifier, and now was hovering over him, giving him what he considered a pep talk.

Peter swallowed. "But, what if I freeze up?" He asked, looking at Micky. "What if I forget how to play? What if I forget how to breathe!?"

"Peter, calm down." Micky said. "You're gonna be fine, now just relax and play your bass. Pretend that it's just you and me, goofing off in the basement!" Peter closed his eyes. "Right," he said. And he began to play.

He didn't play any song in particular, he just started picking out a tune that sounded good to him, and lost himself in the music. "Hey, this isn't so bad," he said, smiling.

"See, what'd I tell ya?" Micky said. "Now open your eyes."

Peter opened his eyes. Micky was right, nobody was paying any attention to him. Peter could feel his heartbeat steadying and his stomach calming. He could do this!

Then somebody stopped and started watching him. Peter tried to ignore him and keep playing. Two more people stopped and stood around, watching. He hit a note that didn't sound good at all to the tune he was making up.

His heart started beating fast again and he started breathing faster. He was messing it up. He knew it. Everybody was going to laugh at him and he would freeze up and Micky would be disappointed in him and-

"Peter, it's okay, they like it," Micky said, nudging him with his elbow. Peter took a second look at the people standing around. They weren't frowning, they weren't staring at him, they were just listening to the music.

That was what mattered, after all. They weren't stopping because of Peter, they were stopping for the music. Music drew people together, everyone spoke the language of music, you didn't have to be amazing or incredible, you didn't have to worry about what people thought as long as you let your music flow.

He began to calm down again. A few more people showed up and stood around. "Yeah," He said, feeling his smile come back. "They like it!"

"That's the spirit!" Micky said dramatically. "Now, play, Peter! Play!" Peter went off into a riff that he knew, picking his bass with ease, no longer worried about whether or not people liked him.

That was the secret, you just had to enjoy yourself, and forget everybody else. Peter loved to play music, so he did, and if other people happened to stand around and watch him, who cared? It was just him and his bass.

* * *

Peter sat very still, breathing deeply, as he and Micky waited to go onstage for an audition. It had been a few weeks since the first one, but Micky had told Peter to just forget that the first one ever happened.

"This,_ this_ is our big break!" He'd said dramatically. "This is our chance to impress the crowds, and begin our careers as the Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer!"

Peter took a side glance at Micky now. The younger boy was sitting next to him, squirming in his seat, eyes darting all over the room.

A man came up to them and looked at Peter oddly. "Hey, kid," He said to Micky. "Your friend there, is he alright?" Micky glanced at Peter. "Yeah," he said. "He's practicing for his dying fish impression. We're not doing it tonight, but it's a riot at parties!"

The man broke into a smile. "Hey, that's pretty good!" He said. Chuckling, he turned and walked away.

"Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer?" A man called. "That's us!" Micky said, standing up and grabbing his cart with his drum set on it. "Come on, Pete, we're up!"

Peter stood up and followed Micky to the man holding the clipboard. "We're the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer," Micky said. The man smiled. "Alright," he said. "Follow me."

He led them backstage and let them pass. Peter looked at the judges and smiled. He was still nervous, but he didn't feel the absolute terror that had gripped him before. Micky nodded to Peter once he was ready and counted off the beat with his drumsticks.

Peter came in right on cue and the two of them played and sang perfectly, doing even better than they had rehearsed. When they were done with their song, Peter took a slight bow before turning to Micky, grinning. "We did it!" He whispered. "I know!" Micky said, grinning back. They had really done it, and they had done it well.

* * *

After the auditions were over, one of the judges came backstage and clapped his hands twice. "Attention, please!" He said. Everything quieted down and all the acts waited breathlessly.

Micky crossed his fingers and Peter clutched the neck of his bass. "I have on this piece of paper, the name of the group who will be performing at the upcoming function," The man said.

Opening the piece of paper, the man cleared his throat. "The Leopards!" He announced.

A group of four girls in the back jumped up and started squealing with delight. Peter sighed and Micky uncrossed his fingers. "Man," he said. "This was our big chance, our door into show business!"

"Don't worry, Micky," Peter said. "There'll be other auditions. The important thing is, we played and I didn't get stage fright!" Micky smiled. "Yeah," he said. "That is a step in the right direction. Besides, nobody said we'd be an instant success. It takes time to get a good act together."

"You're right," Peter agreed. "Now let's go home and get some dinner, I'm starved!"

"Hey, let's tell Aunt Franny that we didn't get the part," Micky said. "Maybe she'll feel bad for us and give us some pie!" Peter laughed. "There you go again," he said. "Always thinking with your stomach!"


	7. The End of the World: Part 1

_Notes: This story is inspired by the death of Micky's real-life father in 1963. This is just fanfiction, however, and it is not exactly based on the actual events of the day, just inspired by them. Micky's family, in this story, are Oc's._

_I tried to make this story as realistic as possible. I've spent a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms, but I have no idea how different they were in the 60's, so I'm just going with what I know. As for the funeral, again, I've spent quite some time at funerals, although, I'm happy to say, not as much time as I have at hospitals, and I wrote by experience._

**Ventura CA, three years prior:**

"Micky! Telephone!" Said Tawnia, one of the maids at the hotel. sticking her head into the door of their music room, she looked at Micky behind the drums. "You'd better hurry, whoever it was said it was important."

Micky and Peter stopped their rehearsal and looked at each other. "Maybe it's from somebody looking for an act," Micky said. Peter smiled. "Well, let's go!" He said.

He set down his bass as Micky got up from behind his drum set, then they raced up the stairs to the lobby, where the telephone was located, and Micky picked up the receiver and held it up to his ear.

"Hello, you've reached Micky Dolenz's assistant," Micky said in a nasally voice. "Mr. Dolenz isn't in right now, can I- Oh, hi, Jenna." Micky dropped the phony voice and sighed. "I thought you were an agent booking our act." Micky frowned. "Hey, what's the matter?" He said. "Why are you crying?"

Peter felt his heart stop. Even though he'd only known Jenna for a few months, he already knew that the girl wasn't one to cry. She scorned those who did. If she was crying, something terrible must've happened.

Micky went white and Peter knew that he'd guessed right about something terrible. "What!?" Micky said. Peter began fidgeting with his hands. He was dying to find out what happened.

"No..." Micky said weakly. "No, that's not true, you're lying!" He was shaking now, and Peter put his hand on Micky's shoulder. He didn't know what was going on, but he wanted Micky to know that whatever it was, he was there for him.

"Alright," Micky was saying now. "I'll be there in ten minutes!"

He hung the phone up and then ran to the front door, Peter right behind him. "Micky," he said. "What's wrong, what did Jenna say?" Micky ignored him and just kept running. "Micky!" Peter called, but Micky didn't answer.

"Come on, Micky," Peter said desperately. "Please, what happened?" Micky finally slowed down to a stop and turned towards Peter. He looked exhausted, even though they'd only run as far as the street corner. "It's dad," He said.

Peter shook his head. "No..." He whispered. Micky nodded. "Jenna called from the hospital. She says... she says he had a heart attack." Peter didn't know what to say. He wanted to comfort Micky, tell him that everything would be alright, but he couldn't find the words.

Micky turned and kept running, and Peter ran to catch up with him. "Wait," he said. Micky stopped. "Wait!?" He asked incredulously. "I can't wait! He's in the hospital! I've gotta go see him!"

"I know," Peter said. "Just trust me on this!" He turned and ran down the alleyway to a different street, and hoped that Micky would have the presence of mind to follow him. He glanced behind him and saw that Micky did.

"Taxi!" He called. He'd seen a few hanging around here earlier, this was a pretty busy street. He caught the attention of an idle taxi driver, who waved that he'd seen them and climbed into his car.

Pulling over next to them, the driver called out "Where to?" As they climbed into the back seat. "The hospital," Peter said. "Which one?" Asked the cabby. Peter looked at Micky, who absently replied "Community Memorial Health."

The cabby nodded and they drove off. There was complete silence for a moment, and Peter looked at Micky, who was more scared than he'd ever seen him before. He reached over and put his hand on Micky's shoulder. "It's gonna be okay," He said quietly. Micky nodded. "Thanks, Pete," He said.

* * *

"Jenna!" Micky called out as they entered the waiting room and saw her sitting there, alone. She looked up and Peter could see she'd been crying. "Oh, Micky!" She said, standing up and hugging him.

"Hey, it's alright," Micky said, as she started crying again. "I don't know what's going on," She said. "Everybody's running around, and nobody's told me anything yet!" Micky swallowed and hugged her tighter. "It's okay," he said. "Everything's going to be okay."

"And what if it's not?" She demanded. "What if... what if-" "Shh," Micky said. "Don't talk like that!" He said. "Dad'll be fine, just wait." He looked over at Peter, and Peter could tell that Micky didn't believe his own words.

Peter blinked back a few tears of his own and sat down in one of the chairs. _This can't be happening,_ he thought. _It just can't..._

Out of everyone in the world to have a heart attack, why Mr. Dolenz? It didn't make any sense. Mr. Dolenz was one of the nicest men Peter had ever met. He was kind, and fun, and had treated Peter like a son from the moment he'd met him.

_Why did this have to happen? _He thought. Next to him, Micky and Jenna had sat back down on a couch, and Micky was still holding Jenna.

Micky looked so much older than he had that morning. That morning, he'd been a normal 16 year old, but now... now he was an adult, trying to be strong for someone he cared about.

After what seemed like an eternity, a nurse came into the room and looked at the three of them, who were the only people in the room. "Family of Daryl Dolenz?" Peter looked over at Micky and Jenna, who nodded.

"Alright," Said the nurse. "Follow me, please." Micky and Jenna stood up to follow, and Micky looked over at Peter. "Well, come on," he said. Peter stuttered out "She-she said, she said the family..." His voice was getting quieter with every word. Micky rolled his eyes.

"And you're family," he said, walking over and pulling Peter up by his arm. "Come on!"

If it hadn't been such a serious situation, Peter would have smiled. Micky had just called him family. But as it was, the word just made Peter choke up a little. He was family. Family to someone who might be dying.

The nurse led them to a room and they all walked in quietly, a feat which some might consider incredible had they known the Dolenz family.

Micky's mom was there by the bedside, holding Mr. Dolenz's hand, but he wasn't awake. Jenna started crying again when she saw her father in the hospital bed, and Micky let out a small groan himself.

Peter stood in the doorway, not sure what to do. He wanted to go and comfort Jenna, be there for Micky, help Mrs. Dolenz, and join the huddle around Mr. Dolenz's bed, but something kept him back, something made him stay where he was.

He stood there for about ten minutes before Micky glanced over and noticed him standing there. "Peter," he said quietly. "Come over here and sit down." Peter slowly walked over and sat down next to Micky, who made room for him on the small couch against the wall.

They sat there in silence until visiting hours were over, and then Micky's mom dropped the boys off at the hotel before she and Jenna went home for the night.

* * *

Peter stood by as Micky, Jenna, and Mrs. Dolenz all sobbed uncontrollably over the dead body of Mr. Dolenz. Suddenly a group of people tried to shove them away. "Stop it!" Peter shouted. "Can't you see they're hurting!?"

But the people just laughed and shoved him away, too. They picked up Mr. Dolenz's body and threw it unceremoniously into a ditch and began filling it with dirt. Peter watched, horrified, as Micky ran over and tried to dig his father's body back out again, and he ran over to try and stop him.

"Micky," he said. "Micky, please! Come away, please, before they bury you too!" He pulled on his friend's arm, but Micky shook him off. He was still sobbing and crying, and it made Peter want to break down in tears himself. "Micky, please!" He said again. "Stop crying, everything will be alright!" "It's just a dream!" Micky said. Peter shook his head. "No," he said. "It isn't! It's real, and I don't want it to be real, but it is, I know it is!"

"Peter, wake up!" Micky said, and suddenly, Peter was awake, and in bed. Micky was there, staring at Peter. He looked like he was about to cry, but was trying very hard not to.

Peter looked away. He could guess what had happened. He'd had a bad dream, and he'd been talking in his sleep, and Micky had heard him. He didn't know how much Micky had heard.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and Micky nodded. Without saying another word, he got up and went back to his own bed.

Peter felt awful. Here his friend was going through so much, and he had to go and dream about his dad dying. And then he had to talk about it, right in front of him. _Me and my big mouth,_ He thought.

He rolled over away from Micky, simply because he couldn't handle seeing him even in his peripheral vision. He didn't sleep again for the rest of the night.

* * *

Micky didn't go too school the next day, he slept late and then when he woke up, he started to get ready to go straight to the hospital. "Micky, before we go, we should probably get some breakfast," Peter said. Since he hadn't gone back to sleep last night, he'd already been up for a few hours.

He'd told both Mr. Spiner and Aunt Franny of the situation, as well as he'd called Micky's school so they would know why he didn't show up.

Mr. Spiner had been very understanding, and had told Peter that Micky didn't have to work until everything was over, one way or the other. Aunt Franny had been immediately sympathetic, and had even shed a few tears on Micky's behalf, and then had gotten to work preparing Micky's favorite breakfast.

Micky didn't seem to be in the mood to eat, however, and Peter couldn't blame him. He wasn't very hungry himself, but he knew that Micky needed his strength. So he talked Micky into going down to the kitchen, where Aunt Franny served them their food silently, sensing that for once in his life, Micky needed quiet.

Micky and Peter picked at their food for about a half hour when Tawnia stuck her head into the kitchen. "Micky," she said. "Someone's on the phone for you."

Micky stood up quickly and ran out of the kitchen. Aunt Franny came over and picked up their plates as Peter also stood up. "Poor dear," she said. Peter nodded. "Thanks for the breakfast, Aunt Franny," he said quietly before heading out into the lobby.

Micky stood by the desk, the telephone up to his ear, but he wasn't saying anything. He stood perfectly still, staring at a spot of the wall, and he was crying silently.

Peter stopped walking. He stopped breathing. He stood as still as Micky, trying as hard as he could to not believe what he was thinking. Micky hadn't cried once throughout this whole ordeal. He'd been close, but he hadn't cried. There was only one reason for him to be crying now.

Without saying a word, Micky hung the phone up and walked slowly to the door, heading outside. Peter remembered that he had legs and followed him, running a little to catch up and then falling into step next to him.

He didn't say anything, he didn't ask what was wrong, he could guess, and he wasn't going to make Micky say it out loud. For one thing, he didn't want to believe it, he wanted to be wrong. Peter had never wanted to be more wrong in his life. If Micky said it now, than Peter would know that it was true, and he didn't want to hear the truth right now.

But really, he guessed that Micky might feel the same way. If he said it out loud, it would be definite. There would be no denying it. It would be real.

They walked along for a while, and Peter noticed that they weren't going to the hospital. They were just walking.

Eventually, they reached a park and they walked under the trees, as birds whistled and sang overhead in the still chilly, but warming April air. They found a bench and Micky sat down on it. Peter didn't feel like sitting, so he stood next to it and looked out over the flowerbeds surrounding them.

They sat there quietly for a few minutes, and then Micky spoke. "He's dead," he blurted. Peter turned towards him. There it was, what he'd known but had dreaded hearing. "Micky, I'm sorry..." He said. There wasn't anything else he could say.

He couldn't say that he understood Micky's pain, he couldn't say that he knew what Micky was going through, because really, he didn't. As much as he loved Mr. Dolenz, he had only known him for three months, and he had never really lost anyone close to him before.

And he didn't want to tell Micky that everything would be alright, that things would get better eventually, because even though he firmly believed that, he knew it wouldn't be of much help to Micky right now.

So he just said what he usually did and hoped that it would be enough.

Micky wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Dead," he repeated. "A month after I turn 16. Why, Peter?" He turned and looked at Peter, as if he were daring Peter to try and explain it. "Why my dad, out of everybody in the world, why did _my dad_ have to die today?"

Peter sat down next to Micky and frowned in thought. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Sometimes, there's no way of ever knowing why stuff like this happens. Sometimes, stuff happens for no good reason we can think of."

Micky pursed his lips. "But why do people have to die at all!?" He demanded. "It's just, wrong! People shouldn't have to die, I mean, how messed up is that!? You're born, you live, you learn, you make friends, you fall in love, you do something with your life, and then you die and lose everything! You die and leave behind everyone who knew you, and they're still stuck down here, wishing you had never left!"

He stopped talking and looked back down at the grass. Peter said nothing, he just breathed in the air and tried to think of some kind of response. He was so bad at these kinds of situations. He never knew what to say. He wished with all his heart that he could help Micky, but he truly had no idea how to do it. He was, like he had been so many times before, clueless.

And so the two of them sat in silence as the day wore on. Around them, birds sang, people laughed, kids played in the grass. The sky was blue, the sun shone down on a nearby pond and reflected off the water, shimmering in a thousand sparkles of light.

The wind blew through the trees, making the newly grown spring leaves dance and whisper to each other, as all over the park, all over the city, all over the nation, all over the world, life continued to go on, oblivious to the small family in Ventura who felt like it was the end of the world.


	8. The End of the World: Part 2

_Notes: This is part two of my previous ficlet, The End of the World. Again, I wish to say that this story was inspired by the death of Micky's real-life father in 1963, but is not based off of it._

_There is lots of angst in this chapter, and lots of crying, but don't worry, by the end, things are looking up. I also want to say, it was very hard writing this chapter, for many reasons._

**Ventura, California, three years prior:**

Micky opened his eyes slowly. He hadn't slept very much last night, but he hadn't wanted to get out of bed, either. He looked over to the window, where the sun was shining through the curtains. Micky almost felt cheated. It was supposed to rain on funeral days.

He sighed and rolled over, staring at Peter's empty bed. He wasn't sure why, but Peter had insisted on sleeping in the basement for the past few nights since the phone call. He hadn't questioned him. It was better not to question Peter when he had one of his strange ideas.

Groaning, Micky climbed out of bed and glared at the sunny window for a few moments before getting changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. He slipped his boots on over his feet and ran a brush through his hair before leaving the room and heading down to the kitchen for breakfast.

"Good morning, Micky," Aunt Franny said quietly as he came in. She handed him a bowl of oatmeal with chocolate ice cream in it. He took it wordlessly and went over to the table and sat down.

Aunt Franny was trying to cheer him up by making his favorite breakfast, and she had done so every morning for the past five days, but he didn't want to be cheered up.

He wanted to be miserable. What good was it for him to be happy when his dad was dead? So he pretended not to notice, and Aunt Franny went about her work as usual, not saying a word past her annual "good morning" she insisted on repeating every rotten day.

About halfway through breakfast, Peter came into the kitchen. He was still wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before, and his hair was messy. He had dark circles under his eyes that matched the ones Micky had ignored when he'd looked in the mirror that morning.

"Morning, Aunt Franny," Peter said tiredly. "Morning, Micky."

Micky took another bite of oatmeal and stared down at his bowl. "Morning, dear," Aunt Franny replied as she handed a bowl of oatmeal without the ice cream to Peter, who had tried the way Micky ate his, but hadn't cared for the taste, preferring to eat his with brown sugar and milk.

Micky pretended not to notice as Aunt Franny glanced towards the table, obviously at him. If Peter had noticed, than he also pretended not to as he walked over and sat across from Micky. He stirred his oatmeal for a moment, mixing in the brown sugar and milk, and then he set his spoon down and stared at it.

"Well, aren't you gonna eat it?" Micky asked quietly. Peter glanced up at Micky, looking almost surprised, and then he picked up the spoon again and began eating.

Micky finished his oatmeal hurriedly and then went back upstairs to their room. He sat on the couch and stared at the wall for awhile.

After about ten minutes, Peter came in. He looked like he was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and instead just walked to the closet and pulled out a black suit. He'd bought it especially for the occasion. It wasn't anything fancy, it wasn't even new, he'd got it at a second-hand store.

Turning towards Micky and opening his mouth again to talk, Peter stood there for an awkward moment and then shut his mouth, turning and walking to the bathroom to get ready.

Micky didn't move from his spot until Peter came out, all dressed for the funeral. He looked at Micky and finally said something. "Um... the service is in an hour," he said quietly. "We're supposed to get there early, so you might wanna start getting ready..."

"What are you talking about, I'm ready now!" Micky said. Peter blinked. "But..." He said, looking down at Micky's boots, jeans, and green shirt. Micky glared at him, daring him to comment.

Peter just frowned in confusion, however, and shut his mouth. Micky sighed. Sometimes Peter's refusal to argue things could be a real drag. "Let's go," he snapped, standing up and passing Peter as he stalked into the hallway.

* * *

To say that his mother was less than pleased to see him show up for his father's funeral in jeans, boots, and a green shirt would have been a major understatement. He wasn't expecting the tears, however. As soon as she saw him, she started crying, and Micky couldn't help but feel guilty, which, in turn, made him even more angry.

She didn't say anything, however, and that sort of defeated the purpose of him wearing those clothes anyway. Couldn't anybody tell that he wanted to pick a fight with somebody!?

"Micky Dolenz, what on _earth_ are you wearing!?" Jenna demanded, running up to where they stood. Micky focused his anger in her direction. "What?" He asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Jenna scowled. "Don't play dumb with me," she said. "You know that what you're wearing is unacceptable!" "Yeah, well, maybe I don't care!" Micky snapped. Jenna narrowed her eyes.

"Micky Dolenz," she said quietly. "You are walking on dangerous ground. Go home and change into something decent right now!" Micky sat down in a nearby chair. "No," he said defiantly. "I'm wearing this, and there's nothing you can do about it!"

Jenna stood there, fuming, but Micky was right. He was 16. She was almost 14. He was bigger, stronger, and when he put his mind to it, there was no force on earth that could move him.

After a moment, Jenna turned and ran away. Micky would have smiled at the victory, but he didn't feel very satisfied. "Oh dear," his mother said, giving Micky a "look" before running off after Jenna.

Peter stood a little ways back, speechless at what had just occurred. Micky turned to him. "Well, sit down!" He snapped. Peter blinked and sat down. Micky rolled his eyes at Peter's general geniality and they sat there together until after the service was over.

As they got up and began to walk toward the door, Jenna appeared out of nowhere and blocked their way.

"Oh no," she said, glaring at Micky. "You aren't going anywhere until I've had my say. I don't know what your problem is, but you seriously have some growing up to do. I know, it's been a hard week. I know, you're upset about dad. We all are. But that's no excuse for your behavior."

Micky was glaring too as she continued. "Do you have any idea what you looked like today, in those clothes? Do you know how many people looked at you today, shaking their heads because you showed up the way you did? I seriously cannot believe that you did that!"

She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. "Do you have any logical explanation for your outfit?" She demanded. "Did you like, wear your suit to breakfast and spill eggs on it or something?" Micky shook his head. "I just decided not to wear it," he said. "And it's not like it mattered to dad, he's dead!"

Jenna reached a hand up and slapped him, hard, without warning. Micky stood there, stunned into silence as Peter put his hand up to his mouth in surprise. Jenna had tears in her eyes as she continued to glare at Micky.

"You're right," she said quietly. "It didn't matter to dad. But you know what? It mattered to me. It mattered to dad's friends. And it mattered to mom. Did you ever stop to think about her, Micky?"

Jenna crossed her arms as she stood there. "She just lost her _husband_," she said. "You know how much she and dad loved each other. And she just lost him. She needs us to be understanding, she needs us to be there for her. And then you show up, at his_ funeral_, looking like this and being a jerk. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Micky was getting angry again. Did Jenna think he didn't care? Did she think this was easy for him? He'd always hated funerals, and this one was just too much. At least he'd shown up. He hadn't even wanted to do that.

And here she was, yelling at him for not caring. The worst part about it was, he knew deep inside that she was right. He was acting selfishly, because of his own pain and heartbreak. He was rebelling, against what, he didn't know.

And one thing he hated was being told off by his little sister, and knowing she was right. It wasn't fair, he was the oldest, he was the big brother, she shouldn't be telling him off, even if she was right. It just wasn't the way things were supposed to work.

"I don't have to justify myself to you," he snapped. "Why don't you run off to mom and leave me alone? I don't need to have you tell me what to do. Come on, Peter. We're going home."

Micky pushed past Jenna and left the building, pausing when he reached the sidewalk. He glanced behind him to see if Peter was coming. Peter was hugging Jenna, and he whispered something that Micky couldn't make out. Jenna shook her head angrily. "No," she said. "I'm never going to forgive him for this! Ever!"

She turned and stomped off, Peter watching her for a second. Then he turned and ran after Micky, who quickly pretended that he hadn't been watching.

"Micky," Peter said as he hurried along to keep up with Micky. "Micky, please, slow down." Micky ignored him. Peter sighed and looked down at the ground as they walked.

"Micky, you weren't very nice to Jenna back there," Peter said reluctantly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. "I mean, I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through. I really don't know. But I _do_ know that Jenna is feeling the same thing. And she's your sister. You don't have to go through this alone. She could help you get through this, and you could help her. That's what family's are for, right?"

Micky suddenly stopped in his tracks, and turned on Peter. He knew it wasn't fair, he knew Peter was right, just like Jenna had been right, but in that one instance, when he was absolutely broken and shattered inside, he didn't care.

"You know, Pete," He said furiously. "There's one thing you said right now that I believe whole-heartedly, and that was "I don't know!" You don't know anything about what I feel, and you don't know anything about Jenna, and you don't know what you're talking about! YOU NEVER KNOW! So stop pretending to be so smart, 'cause you're not fooling anyone!"

The instant, the second the words came out of his mouth, Micky regretted them. He hated himself for what he was doing, he hated himself for what he had said to Peter, and Jenna, and he hated himself for wearing these stupid clothes to his dad's funeral.

He was crying now, he could barely see Peter's shocked face through his tears. Turning, he ran the rest of the way to the hotel, not knowing or caring whether Peter was behind him or not.

He ran up to their room and threw himself onto the couch and sobbed. He sobbed because of his dad, he sobbed because of Jenna and Peter, and he sobbed because he was a monster who had probably just ruined his friendship with them both.

* * *

Micky woke up with a splitting headache. For a second, he didn't know why, and then it came rushing in on him. He had cried himself to sleep the night before, curled up into a ball on the couch. The tears plus the uncomfortable springy couch had created the headache.

Rolling over and falling to the floor, he laid there for about five minutes before standing up and looking at the window. It was sunny again. Maybe he would go for a walk, try to clear his head.

As he passed through the lobby, he glanced at the concierge desk, where Peter was getting ready to start his shift. It almost made Micky jealous. He was still on official leave, so he couldn't work to get his mind off everything that had happened.

He thought about stopping and apologizing to Peter for what he'd said the night before, but Peter hadn't noticed him, and shame overcrowded his other senses and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He walked to the park and sat down on one of the benches, staring at all the happy people passing by. How could they still be happy when the world had ended? It didn't make any sense.

A pigeon flew over and landed in the grass a few feet away from him. Cooing, it picked at something in the grass and hopped around for a little while. Micky stuck his tongue out at it.

"How do you do it!?" He demanded. "What's your secret? You don't have any family, you're a bird, for heaven's sake! How do you stand it? I bet you didn't even know your dad! I bet you were your mothers least favorite! I bet she threw you out of the nest first!"

And now he was crazy, insulting birds like some kind of... crazy person...

Micky groaned. He couldn't even finish his own comparison of himself to some crazy person. He had to break out of this funk, it was killing him.

And more importantly, it was killing his relationships. He had made his mother cry, he had made his sister hate him, and he had yelled at Peter and called him stupid.

He glared up at the sky. If there was anyone up there, they sure must've hated him, to make his life fall apart like this. _If you're so great and wonderful,_ He thought angrily. _Then why haven't you fixed this yet?_

The pigeon suddenly got up and flew away down the park, and as Micky turned to watch it go, a gentle breeze swept through the park, pushing his hair out of his face. He blinked in surprise. Just the simple feel of the wind on his face had made him feel a little bit better.

He looked down the walkway. The park was practically empty, which was surprising on such a nice day as this. Standing up slowly, Micky looked behind him real fast, just to make sure nobody was there. Then he took off.

He ran, he ran down the park walkway, he ran past the trees and the bushes, he ran past the benches and the nearby pond. He ran past an empty playground and then turned around and ran back to it.

He ran over to the swing set and sat down on a swing, pushing off with his legs and pumping, he soon was swinging as high as he possibly could.

The wind on his face was fantastic, and soon he was laughing with the euphoria of it. Whenever he reached the highest point of the arc, he truly felt weightless, and that included the weight of the sorrow he had carried ever since his dad had passed on.

He was still sad, of course. He still missed his dad terribly. But he felt like he could breathe again. He was alive, oh, he was so alive!

He jumped off of the swing and flew for an instant before gravity kicked in and he fell to the ground. He ripped a hole in the knee of his jeans and he scraped his knee up pretty bad, but he didn't care. He stood up from the ground and laughed.

The ground hadn't opened up when he landed, it hadn't crumbled away beneath his feet. The world hadn't quite ended after all. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, with just enough clouds in the sky to give it character. The wind was blowing pretty steadily now, and a group of birds from a nearby tree chose that moment to fly away together, swarming through the sky into the sun.

Micky turned and ran all the way to his mom's house. He had something he needed to tell her.

* * *

She opened the door and took one look at Micky. "Goodness!" She said, opening the door all the way open and pulling him inside. "Micky, what happened!? You look like you got in some kind of wreck!"

"Huh?" Micky panted, before realizing that he really did look pretty bad. His jeans were torn, his knee was bleeding, and he had just run here from the park. "No, I'm fine," he said, laughing a little. "Mom, I just... I wanted to say that I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday, it was selfish of me, and I shouldn't have done that to you."

"Oh, Micky..." His mom said, pulling him into the living room and sitting him down on the couch. "You don't have to apologize, I know how hard it was for you, and everybody grieves differently-"

"No, mom," Micky interrupted. "Don't try to justify what I did. It doesn't matter how much I was hurting, I shouldn't have taken it out on you and Jenna, and Peter. I should have put aside my anger and faced my problems with dignity, for dad's sake."

His mom sniffed and Micky could see she was about to cry. "Oh, mom, please don't cry!" He said. "Then, I'll start crying, and then we'll both be a big mess..." His mom nodded and wiped away the few tears that had already escaped.

"I'm okay," she said. "I'm just... I'm proud of you, Micky. I hope you know that. I'll always be proud of you, and I'll always love you. Even when you make mistakes, I'll love you, and what you just said reminds me of that, and it makes me even more proud of you than I've ever been before."

Now Micky was the one trying not to cry, as he suddenly jumped forward and hugged his mom. She hugged right back, and soon they were both blubbering like babies. But it didn't matter. It was a good kind of crying.

It wasn't the kind of crying Micky had done the night before, where you were crying because you felt like your heart was tearing into a million pieces and you were alone in the world. No, this was the kind of crying you did when yeah, you were sad. Yeah, you were hurting, but there was someone there who loved you and cared about you, and that somehow made you feel happier than you'd ever felt before.

* * *

Micky knocked on the door to Jenna's bedroom. "Come in!" She called. He opened the door and went inside. As soon as she saw him, her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" She snapped. Micky put his hands up to show he had no tricks up his sleeve. It was something he and Jenna had done since they were kids. The sign of ultimate surrender.

"Jenna," he said. "I know you have every right to hate me, and I won't deny that. I was horrible to you last night, and I shouldn't have said or done anything that I did. I came here to apologize. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wore those clothes-" She glanced down at his shirt and he suddenly remembered that he was still wearing them.

"I'm sorry I wore these stupid clothes," he said. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk, I'm sorry for everything I said to you. You were right. You were so right, and I should have listened to you. Please forgive me, Jen."

He looked at her silently, hands still in the air, waiting for her to say something. Anything. She glared at him. "I needed you, Micky," she said quietly. "I needed you, and Mom needed you, and you turned your back on us. I went to the funeral to pay my respects to dad, and to say goodbye for the last time. Instead, I ended up fighting with my only brother. As far as I'm concerned, he died too. I'm done with you, Micky."

Micky gulped and slowly lowered his hands. He had really hoped that she would forgive him. But she was a Dolenz, and he knew from experience, the Dolenz family could hold a grudge.

"I understand..." He said quietly. "I wouldn't forgive me, either. But I won't give up. I promise you," He held his hands up again. No tricks, no lies. "I will never give up telling you how sorry I am for the way I acted. Not until you forgive me."

Jenna turned away. "Yeah, well, good luck with that," she said coldly. "Now, get out of my room."

Micky turned and left the room. Shutting the door, he called out "I'm sorry!" As a way of saying goodbye. He felt optimistic about the whole thing. It hadn't gone well, but it hadn't gone as bad as he'd thought it would. He had seriously expected her to throw a lamp at him or something.

* * *

"Peter!" Micky called out, running into the lobby. Peter didn't respond, and Micky saw that he had fallen asleep at the concierge desk. He ran up to him and ducked behind the desk. "PETER!" He shouted, causing Peter to jerk awake with a yell. As soon as he saw Micky, Peter smiled. "Oh, it's you," he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "I thought it was the fireman come to get the bunny."

Micky shook away the instant curiosity at Peter's words. "Never mind that," he said. "I want to apologize for what I said to you last night." Peter looked at him, baffled. "Why," he said. "What did you say to me last night?"

Micky rolled his eyes. "You know," he said. When Peter still looked confused, Micky sighed. "When I told you to... stop acting smart..." His voice was getting lower and he didn't want to say that last part, but Peter saved him the embarrassment.

"Oh yeah," he said, realization lighting up his eyes. "Don't worry, Micky, I knew you didn't mean anything by it. Besides," He smiled again. "It was true anyway. I never know what I'm talking about. You should have seen the notes my teachers sent me home with during school. They never knew quite what to do with me."

Micky laughed. "Well, true or not, I shouldn't have said it," he said. "Can you forgive me?" Peter nodded. "Of course I can," He said, smiling. "Gosh, it's sure good to have you back, Micky!"

Micky smiled. He sure was lucky to have a friend like Peter. "Say, Pete?" He asked. "Now that I'm "back" and all that, can you come back and sleep in the room again? I don't like you sleeping down in the basement. It's not healthy."

Peter nodded. "Sure, Micky," he said. "I'll come back in the room again." Micky frowned. "Hey, why were you sleeping in the basement anyway?" He asked. Peter shrugged. "Just in case," He answered.

Micky laughed. Peter was still as confusing as ever. He hadn't answered the question at all. _Better to not even bother trying to understand,_ he reminded himself. _You could get a headache trying to wrap your head around Peter's logic._

As Peter continued his shift, Micky drifted off to the basement. He hadn't played his drums in about a week, and he was suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire to hear them again, to feel the drumsticks in his hands as he played.

Life had changed drastically for Micky in the past week. But that didn't mean it was over. He still had his music. He still had his dream. He just had another reason to go on.

Now, he wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for his dad. He would make sure that his dad's memory lived on in him, and every time he played his music, he would try to put a little of his dad into it.

People come into your life for a reason and a season, his mother always said. Now that his dad's season was over, it was time to remember the times they did have, it was time to remember the reason, and live his life accordingly.

Life would never be quite the same. It would be much different from now on, it would be much harder to get through without his dad's help. But it wasn't the end of the world.


	9. The Washington Rhymer

**Ventura, CA, two years, eight months prior:**

It was summer time. That meant no school for Micky, and he and Peter had taken advantage of that fact by rehearsing every day throughout June, July, and August. They had continued to audition for gigs, and one spectacular night, they got their first job.

It was at a local club in their neighborhood, and they were there now, setting up, when it happened. Micky met a girl.

Their meeting wasn't very romantic, there was no heavenly light, no singing choir, nothing like that. In fact, they met because Micky tripped over Peter's guitar case and fell off the stage, and she was walking by to set up tables and_ she_ tripped over _him_.

Peter jumped down to make sure they were both alright as they helped each other up, laughing the whole while.

"Sorry about that," Micky said, dusting off his shirt. "I wasn't watching where I was going." "No, it's no problem," the waitress said. "You just caught me by surprise, is all."

"Hey, are you alright?" Peter asked. Micky and the girl both nodded and kept talking.

"My name's Micky," said Micky. "I'm the California Dreamer." The girl smiled. "Neat," she said. "My name's Penny. I'm from Washington." "Washington?" Micky asked. "That's pretty cool. What brings you to Ventura?"

The girl shrugged. "I moved out here to live with my aunt. I wanted to get a change of scenery, and this was my best option." Micky nodded. "That makes sense," he said. "Hey, I gotta finish setting up, wanna hang out after the gig's over?" Penny smiled. "Sure," she said. "As long as you don't mind helping me bust down tables. I work here, remember? I don't get off after you're done playing, I get off after the people quit paying."

"Hey, that was neat!" Micky said. "How did you come up with that?" Penny smirked. "You mean the rhyme?" She asked. "It's just something I've always been good at. Some girls cook, some girls clean, I got into the poetry scene."

Micky smiled. "Wow, that's pretty amazing," he said. "Hey, Donaldson!" The owner of the club called out. Penny turned towards him. "Yeah?" She said. The owner pointed at the clock. "We open in five minutes," he said. "And you haven't finished putting coasters on the tables!"

Penny turned back to Micky. "Well," she said. "I'll talk to ya after the show. Good luck!" Then she turned and got back to work.

Micky smiled and climbed back onto the stage, where Peter was tuning his bass. "Did you see that?" He asked. "She was totally into me!" Peter smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Congratulations. Now, can you set up your drums? We only have five minutes."

"Oh, yeah, sure!" Micky said. "Man, this is gonna be great! Our first gig! Can you believe it?" Peter nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I'm kinda nervous." "Well, whatever you do, don't start that dying fish routine," Micky said. "We're here to sing, not freak people out."

"Right." Peter finished tuning his bass and played a few notes from their opening song. They still did mostly covers, which was one of the reasons they hadn't gotten many of the gigs they'd auditioned for. As a result, Peter and Micky were trying to write songs of their own, but they had quickly discovered it was a lot harder to write songs than to simply learn them.

Micky finished setting up his drums and began to play along to Peter's bass, and they hummed along to get their voices warmed up. "Alright," Micky said when they'd finished. "I'm ready to play!"

* * *

The customers seemed to like them, some of them got up and danced during some of the more upbeat songs, and as they played, Micky kept catching Penny's eye. He smiled. She was definitely watching him.

During one song, she didn't have any customers to wait on, and she danced along a little bit in the back of the room. She wasn't the best dancer, in fact, she seemed to be dancing goofily on purpose. It made Micky want to laugh, but he was in the middle of singing a song, so he had to stifle it.

After the set was over, he climbed out from behind his drums, jumped down from the stage and ran up to Penny.

"Bus boy Dolenz, reporting for duty!" He said, standing at attention and giving a salute. Penny laughed. "Alright, then," she said. "You can start clearing dishes off of empty tables. The kitchen's right through that door, just stack them by the sink. And don't let the cook hit you, tell her I sent you in there!"

Micky nodded and ran off to a nearby table, gathering the dirty plates, silverware, and cups. Then, balancing them precariously in one hand, he walked to the kitchen and stepped through the door.

"No guests allowed!" A mean looking lady in a hair net said, glaring at him. "Oh, it' okay!" Micky said, cautiously eyeing a metal spatula the cook was brandishing. "Penny sent me in here to help, so we could get the work done faster and then hang out."

The cook humphed. "That silly girl..." She muttered before turning back to her business. "Leave the dishes by the sink," she ordered. Micky, who was already walking away after doing just that, paused and glanced back at her. "SIR, YES SIR!" He said, standing at attention and giving a salute.

The cook turned back towards him, mouth open in shock and her face getting red. Micky figured it was time for a tactical retreat and rushed out the door right as the spatula came flying at him.

Laughing, he sped away from the kitchen over to where Peter was talking to Penny, probably asking where Micky had gone. Penny was pointing towards the kitchen.

"Hi Pete, hi Penny!" Micky said, interrupting their conversation. "Oh, there you are, Micky!" Peter said, smiling. Penny looked at him. "What's so funny?" She asked. Micky shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Just the cook's got an attitude, that's all."

"Oh," Penny said, smiling. "Yeah, she can get a little testy sometimes. You have to practically tip-toe around her to keep her from getting in one of her moods."

"Donaldson!" The manager said, walking over to them. "Table three needs refills on their drinks, and the couple at table seven look to be about ready for dessert." "Yes sir," Penny said. She turned to Micky. "You guys keep clearing tables," she said. "While I take care of the customers."

"Okay," Micky said as she walked away. "Alright, Peter," he said, turning towards his friend. "Here's what we do: we go to the empty tables, where there are no customers sitting, we clear all the empty dishes and take them into the kitchen. We stack them next to the sink, and then we go to another table. Got it?" "Got it," Peter said, nodding.

"Right then, let's go!" Micky said, heading for an empty table in the back. He gathered all the dishes together and turned towards the kitchen. He saw Peter walking ahead of him, a neat stack of dirty dishes from two different tables balanced expertly in his hands. It seemed that Peter had some sort of experience as a bus boy.

Micky walked a little faster to catch up with Peter, and fell into step behind him. "Wow, you're pretty good at this, Pete!" He remarked. Peter smiled. "Thanks," He said. "My first job back in Connecticut was at a restaurant, so I know how to handle dishes."

Leaning his back against the kitchen door, Peter pushed it open and stepped through, only to be hit in the face by a flying glob of dough. Peter froze, stunned by the unexpected gooey stuff.

"Hey!" Micky said, walking past him and sending a glare to the cook. "What was that all about!?" The cook glanced at him and frowned. "Oh, my apologies," She said sarcastically. "I thought he was you. Here." She picked up another glob of dough and threw it at Micky, who ducked instinctively. It flew over his head and hit Peter again, who finally seemed to wake up. Stepping the rest of the way through the door, he let it swing shut behind him.

"Micky," he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. "What'd you do this time?" "What'd'ya mean, this time!?" Micky demanded. "Why do you always assume _I_ did something?" Peter looked at him. "I don't know," He shrugged. "I just... I thought she was aiming for you..."

"I was," The cook said, throwing a third glob of goo at Micky, whose back was turned towards Peter. He turned around just in time to see it coming, however, and ducked again. This time, Peter ducked too, and the glob of dough sailed over their heads and hit the manager, who had just opened the door to step into the kitchen.

He stood there frozen, just like Peter had done, and Peter, Micky, and the cook all froze as well. After a second, the manager sighed and pulled out a handkerchief. Using it to wipe his face, he looked from the cook to Micky and Peter. "Well," he said calmly, as if he were mentioning the weather. "I see the two of you met Mrs. Hammersfield."

Micky nodded. It made sense that such an awful lady would be named Hammersfield. The manager sighed again. "Mrs. Hammersfield," he said. "I would appreciate it if you would kindly refrain from throwing the food at the performers. And boys, I would appreciate it if you just stayed out of the kitchen from now on."

With that, he turned to leave the kitchen.

"But wait a second," Micky said, running in front of him. "Aren't you going to do somethig about this!? She threw food at us! I mean, just look at Peter!"

Everyone turned to look at Peter, who was still covered in the doughy mess. He looked around at everyone and his face broke into a small smile. The manager sighed a third time. "Fine," he said. "Mrs. Hammersfield, please get Mr. Tork a washcloth for his face." Then he left.

Mrs. Hammersfield sighed, getting a wet washcloth from the sink and handing it to Peter. "There," she said. "And let me just say, I never meant to hit _you_." She shot a glare at Micky while Peter wiped all the goo off his face. "That's alright," he said. "Stuff like this happens a lot when you're friends with Micky."

Micky huffed as Mrs. Hammersfield chuckled. "You're alright, kid," she said. "Here, have freshly baked cookie, on the house." She turned to a tray on the counter and picked up a hot chocolate chip cookie. She held it out to Peter, who took it with a smile. "Thanks," he said. "It's delicious!"

The cook stared. "You haven't even tried it yet!" She said. Peter's smile got even wider. "Yes I have!" He said. "In fact, I'm still tasting it now!" He licked his lips and held up the dough-covered washcloth, and the cook suddenly began to laugh. "I kind of like you, kid!" She shooed them out of her kitchen, still laughing, and then shut the door behind her.

Micky looked at the cookie in Peter's hand. "Why didn't I get one?" He asked. Peter smiled. "Because she didn't like you," he said, breaking the cookie in half and handing a piece to Micky.

Micky took it gratefully and they ate it silently as they went over to find Penny. "Hey guys," she said when they found her. "Why aren't you busting tables?" "Eh, the cook got us thrown out of the kitchen," Micky said absently.

Penny looked at Peter, who had gotten most of the dough off of his face, but still had some on his shirt and in his hair. "I see," she said. "Well then, maybe you guys should head home. I don't get off for another hour, and it'll be pretty late by then."

"But you said we could hang out!" Micky said, pouting just a little. He'd known from an early age that he could work a pout. Penny smiled. "Well, maybe we could hang out tomorrow," she said. "Just give me a minute, I'll get you my phone number."

She walked away and Micky grinned. "Yes!" He said. "Did you hear that, Pete? She's gonna give me her phone number!" Peter smiled. "I heard," he said. "I'm gonna go start packing up our stuff. Come help me when you're done, alright?"

Micky nodded and Peter walked towards the stage. Soon, Penny returned with a sip of paper. "Here you go," she said. "Call me sometime tomorrow, and we can make plans."

"Okay," Micky said, pocketing his new-found treasure. "See ya then!" Penny smiled. "Bye, Micky!" She said.

Then she went off to another table and Micky went to join Peter. He couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the night. He was in love.

* * *

_Author's note: Sorry this chapter is so short, but I'm going to be extremely busy over the next several months, starting this morning, so I'm no longer going to be posting a new chapter every day. From now on, I'm going to post when I can find the time. Also, I'm going to be working on a few other stories while I'm at it, instead of just this one._

_So, until I write the next chapter, fare thee well._


	10. Sometime in the Morning

_Author's note: Sorry I took so long to update, I 've been working on a co-op project with my sister, and it's taken up a lot of my time._

_Also, I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but it seemed perfect the way it was, short and simple, but sweet, so I decided to keep it like that. Well, here it is, enjoy!_

* * *

**Ventura, CA, two years, six months prior:**

Micky grinned as he and Peter finished up a song, they had been practicing in the basement while Penny watched, and she made it very obvious that she liked their sound.

She and Micky had been officially dating for two months, and spent as much time together as they possibly could. Which wasn't much time at all, really. School had started, they didn't have many classes together, they both still worked, and Micky and Peter had to practice. So Penny had taken to coming down to the basement and watching the two boys practice whenever she was hanging around.

"That was great," she said as they finished. "But I bet you guys would get a lot farther if you wrote your own songs."

"Yeah, but it's not that easy to write a song," Micky said. Penny frowned. "What do you mean?" She asked. Micky shrugged. "I don't know how to explain it," he said. "I try to write songs, but I just can't get anything right. The words, the tune, everything."

"Well, let's hear something you've been working on," Penny said. Micky shook his head. "It's no good," he said. "I just don't think I'm cut out for writing."

"Nonsense!" Penny said. "Anyone can write a song, it just takes a little thought. Now, I don't have all day long, so sit and tell me what you've got." "I still don't know how you do that," Peter said, shaking his head as Micky obediently sat down. He looked at Penny.

"Well?" she said. "Sing!" Micky fidgeted nervously and cleared his throat. "Uh, okay, but... but don't laugh, promise?"

"I promise," Penny said. "Peter, do you promise?" She asked, turning to look at Peter. "Oh, I wouldn't laugh anyway," Peter said. "I wouldn't want to hurt Micky's feelings."

"There you have it," Penny said. "Now sing."

Micky took a few deep breaths. How was it he was able to stand on a stage and sing in front of strangers, but he was nervous about singing an unfinished song to his girlfriend and best friend? He swallowed. _Well,_ he thought. _Here goes nothing._

"Sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her close,

And you'll tell her that you love her before the evening goes

Because she makes you see things that you never saw before,

And you can't live without her, she's yours forever more..."

He trailed off and looked at Peter and Penny. They weren't laughing, they had kept their promise. But he felt his face grow red anyway. "I told you it wasn't any good," he said quietly. "No, it was good!" Penny said. "It just needed a little fine-tuning is all. I liked the basic idea."

"What'd'ya mean, fine-tuning?" Micky asked. "I was gonna scrap the whole thing!"

"What!?" Peter said. "But I liked it! It just needed a little bit of fine-tuning, like Penny said. It's like my bass. If it's not tuned just right, it doesn't sound as good as it should, but that doesn't mean I throw out the instrument!"

"Yeah," Penny said. "Now, let's work on that song! Do you have it written down anywhere?" "Yeah," Micky said. "Let me run upstairs and get it."

When he returned, Penny looked at the rest of the lyrics. "These aren't bad," she said. "But let me show you a few tricks I learned about poetry. They'll probably help you a lot."

"Okay," Micky said, sitting back down on the ground. Penny spread the paper out between them. "First off, 'Close' and 'Goes' don't really rhyme." "I know," Micky said. "But I couldn't think of another word that even sort of rhymed with close."

"Then, I would change the first line," Penny said. "Keep working on the phraseology of it until you find a word combination that fits right." "Okay, like what?" Micky asked. Penny tilted her head. "Let me think," she said. "Sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her near, near... hmm. Near, fear, year, tier, dear, dear!" "Uh, what?" Micky asked, confused.

"Oh, that's what I do to find a word combination," Penny said. "It helps me find a perfect rhyme, and I build the rest of my sentence on that. So, sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her near, and you'll tell her that you love her and she'll... no, wait... um, huh."

"Well?" Micky asked. Penny shrugged. "I guess it's not dear/near," she said. "Let's see... sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her..." "Hey, why not end it there?" Peter asked. "Sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her?"

"See, that's good, but it's too short, not enough syllables," Penny said. "Besides," Micky added. "What rhymes with 'her'?" "Well, it's alright to rhyme a word with that very word, if it's in a song," Penny said absently. "Especially if the words right before those words rhyme. Like, let's see, hold... hold, fold, bold, mold, gold... gold? Nah, 'gold her' doesn't even make any sense... scold, cold, told... told!"

"Sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her, And you'll tell her all the things you never ever told her... I don't know, it still doesn't sound right," Micky said. "That's because it's too short now, silly," Penny said, smiling. "So let's work a little more on that first line. Sometime in the morning, you'll decide to hold her. How do we make that longer?"

They thought for a moment. "Well, we could change 'decide'," Micky said. "I don't know, replace it with something longer?" "That's a great idea!" Penny said. "So let's see... what's longer than 'decide,' and means the same thing?"

That was how they spent the next two hours, working out the song, line by line, word by word, and after they grabbed a quick dinner (Micky promising to work longer the next day to pay for Penny's plate), Peter started working on a bass line for it, and they practiced singing it a few times, with Peter taking an echo part that really made it sound beautiful.

After Penny left, Micky and Peter practiced for a little while longer and then headed up to bed. As Micky tried to fall asleep, he thought over their accomplishment. He felt very lucky to have Penny as a girlfriend, he would have to thank her sometime tomorrow.

He smiled as he lay, staring at the off-white ceiling. He'd have to thank her sometime in the morning.

* * *

They introduced their new song a few weeks later at the club where Penny worked. As Peter started in on the bass line, Micky glanced up to see Penny's reaction. They hadn't told her they were planning to sing it that night.

She looked up when she recognized it, and as Micky started to sing, she met his eyes.

"Sometime in the morning, a simple thought may occur to you and you'll hold her

And tell her all the things you never told her

Your love has shown me things

I never thought I could see, I didn't know

it could be done so easily, now I know

You're where it is for me

Sometime in the evening, you're sitting there by the fireside, and she'll touch you

And you will realize how much you

Never knew before

How much you couldn't see, You didn't know

It could be done so easily, now you know

She's all a girl could be

Now in her childlike eyes,

you see the beauty there,

You know it was always there,

And you need no longer wear a disguise

Sometime in the morning,

You'll just reach out, and she will be there

Close as the summer air

Sometime in the morning, she will be there

Sometime in the morning, she will be there..."

As the song finished, the audience, which had become entranced with the sweet melody, began to clap loudly. But Micky had eyes only for Penny. She was smiling, and he could tell that she knew now, if she didn't before, that he had written it all for her.

From that moment, she became a crucial part to their band. She didn't sing or play an instrument, and they didn't officially add her to their band name, but she was always there to help them write, and every song she worked on turned out sweet and beautiful. The Connecticut Yankee, the California Dreamer, and the Washington Rhymer. It was perfect.


	11. No Feet on Backwards

_Author's note: This is just a fun little short story to break up all the Micky fics. I realized that the last several chapters all seemed to be focused on Micky, and the next few chapters I'm planning focus on him as well, so I wrote this to give Peter a moment in the spotlight._

_I guess you could call this one a crossover, and a very fun one it was too. I don't want to give away any spoilers, so the disclaimer will be located at the end of the chapter. If you find yourself completely lost with no idea who these unexplained characters are, don't worry, I'll try to give a quick explanation at the end of the chapter, along with the disclaimer._

* * *

**Ventura, CA, two years four months prior:**

It was one in the afternoon on a Sunday morning, and Peter was bored. He had the day off, because it was Sunday, and he was bored because Micky was gone for the weekend.

That year at school, Micky had decided to join band class, because now he was a drummer, so he figured band class must be fun. Now he was off on a trip with the rest of the class, playing in a high school band contest in nearby Santa Barbara.

Which was fine with Peter, he was happy that his friend was having a good time, but now he was alone.

He played his bass for awhile, but he'd already been playing it all morning, and without Micky on the drums, he just didn't have the heart for it.

So, after sitting around doing nothing for about ten minutes, he decided to go for a walk. Grabbing his jacket, he took off.

Leaving the hotel, he stood for a moment before choosing a direction at random and heading down the street.

He walked along for several minutes, thinking about how fun it would be to take off again, to go travel until there was nowhere left to go, nothing left to see. To just grab his bass and go, no worries, no obligations, free to do whatever he wished.

Not that he disliked his new life here, he liked his job, and Aunt Franny's meatloaf, and Micky, and being in a band. He just still got the travel bug sometimes, and this was one of those times.

He had been here for a little over a year now, he realized. Stopping on a random street corner, he smiled. It had only been a little over a year since Micky had run into him and changed his life. It was funny, how a simple thing as meeting someone new could ch-

Suddenly, the air was knocked out of him as he found himself once again hitting the concrete hard. He couldn't apologize the way he normally did, because this time, he was struggling to catch his breath.

"Sorry about that, terribly busy, Can't stay and chat, I've got to run!" A hand was pulling him to his feet and a British accent was speaking as Peter came face to face with a rather tall lanky man with wild brown hair wearing a bowtie.

"That's all right," Peter managed to wheeze out, still recovering his breath. The man gaped.

"Peter Tork!?" He exclaimed. Peter nodded. Had he met this man before? He was sure he would've remembered...

The man was now shaking his hand vigorously. "Very nice to meet you," he said. "Very nice indeed! Why, I was just talking about you, really, I was, I-"

"Doctor, come on!"

Peter looked around and saw a woman with red hair holding a pitchfork, and, behind her, a blonde guy panting and catching his breath.

"Oh, right!" The man exclaimed. "It was nice talking to you, Peter," He said, smiling at Peter. "Good luck with your band!"

And then he took off. Peter watched in confusion as the three ran down the street and around a corner. He decided that whoever that man was, he'd probably seen him and Micky perform before, and had recognized him from then.

A small thrill went up his spine at the thought that he'd been recognized. Was this what it was like to be famous, only it happened all the time? It was too bad Micky wasn't here, he would have loved this little taste of fame.

Now thinking about what it would be like to be truly famous, Peter continued his walk.

* * *

"So, who was that you ran into back there?" Amy asked the Doctor as the TARDIS left their latest adventure. "Ah yes," The Doctor said. "Peter Tork, bassist, pianist, banjo player, and harp player for the Monkees, an American 60's band.

"Oh," Amy said. "Like the Beatles?"

"Yes and no," The Doctor said. "The Beatles were British, and had a different sound. But the Monkees _wanted_ to be like the Beatles, that much's for sure."

"Well, did they ever make it?" Amy asked. "Make it!?" The Doctor exclaimed with a laugh. "No, they never made it. They played a few festivals, sold a few records, but on a whole, they were one of the most unsuccessful talented bands in history! They practically invented the term 'garage band', and took the term 'starving artists' to a whole new level."

"Oh," Amy said. "But you wished him luck,"

"Yes I did," The Doctor admitted. "Heaven knows he'll need it." Amy smiled. "Well, you never know," she said. "Time can be rewritten. Maybe you running into him changed the course of history, and he'll really make it this time."

The Doctor chuckled. "Oh, Pond," he said. "Always looking on the bright side. I suppose it could happen. You never know how important it could be when you run into someone new."

* * *

_Well, there you have it, a short Peter meets the Doctor story, even though Peter has no idea who it is he ran into. Now for the disclaimers:_

_I do not own Doctor Who or any characters from Doctor Who._

_And now for the explanation:_

_Doctor Who is a British Television Sci-Fi show about an alien known as "The Doctor," who travels throughout space and time in his ship, the TARDIS, which is an acronym for Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. He often travels with companions, usually humans, for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture. And trouble follows him wherever he goes, even when he deliberately visits places where nothing ever happens, something dangerous happens simply because he is there. And he runs. A lot._


	12. Words

**Ventura, CA, two years four months prior:**

Micky shivered under his jacket, stamping his feet as the other team scored again, causing the crowd to boo and hiss, and the cheerleaders to rally the crowd with shouts of "That's okay!" And "Good effort!"

Watching the band teacher, Micky got his drumsticks ready to begin the count off to play some game-time music for the team.

He enjoyed being in band, he'd made some new friends and he liked playing music at football games and stuff, but now that November was rolling in, it was getting too cold to stand outside for the entire game.

He smiled as the teacher nodded to him to start playing, and as he played, he thought briefly that it was a good thing this was the last game of the season.

* * *

During the third quarter of the game, the Teacher told everyone to take a break, and they would get back to playing at the start of the fourth. Without wasting any time, Micky got up from the school drum set and ran up to where Peter was sitting, watching the game with Micky's mom.

"Hi Peter, hi mom!" He said brightly. "Are you having a good time?" Peter nodded and smiled, and Micky's mom shrugged. "You know I don't understand a thing about football," she said. "I'm just here to hear you play."

Micky laughed and the three of them talked for a few minutes before Micky shivered again. "I'm gonna go get some hot cocoa," he said. "Want anything?" "Sure," Micky's mom said, reaching into her pocketbook and pulling out a dollar. "Get me one too, will you?" She asked. "Sure thing, Ma," Micky said, turning and taking off through the stands.

Even with the weather as cold as it was, the bleachers were filled, and there was quite a crowd to maneuver his way through. Football was very important to the people at Micky's high school.

But Micky was fast and nimble, and he reached the concession stand in a matter of moments. There he saw Jenna, who was standing near the front of the line, talking to her friends.

"Hi, Jenna!" Micky called over cheerfully. "I'm sorry!"

He had made it a point to apologize every time he said hello, simply because she hadn't forgiven him yet. Jenna rolled her eyes and turned away from him, paying for her hot dog and walking away with her friends.

Micky didn't think anything of it, this had been normal behavior for Jenna for several months. He waited patiently for the line to move up, running in place to keep his blood moving.

"Two hot cocoas, please!" He said, putting the money down on the counter. The girl took the money and began to fill two cups with the steaming liquid. Handing them to Micky, she smiled. "Here you go," she said. "Thanks!" Micky exclaimed, taking one cup in each hand.

The heat from the cocoa already was burning his hands, and Micky was grateful for the warmth as he made his way back through the crowd toward the bleachers. He hated cold fingers.

Before he made it to the first row, however, he was suddenly aware that his name was being spoken somewhere nearby. He could hear it, and the voice was unmistakable. Jenna had just yelled his name.

Turning, he made his way to the source of the sound, which was a small crowd of teenagers gathering behind the bathrooms, all yelling excitedly. That didn't make any sense, you couldn't even see the game from back here.

Pushing his way through the crowd to the center, he stopped, stunned by what he saw.

Jenna was fighting, and by the look on her face, he recognized that this was no play fight. She was genuinely angry, as she scratched and hit and generally creamed her opponent.

But that wasn't what really surprised him. What made him stand there frozen in shock was who she was fighting with.

Shrieking and trying to defend herself from the fiery young girl was Penny, who was quite a sight, her hair messy from being pulled and her face smeared with mustard and relish.

Micky couldn't believe what he was seeing, he seriously just could not believe it. It was barely even registering in his mind that his sister was beating up his girlfriend. The Cocoa in his hands forgotten, he stood there with his mouth open, watching the scene unfold.

Finally, someone seemed to notice he was there. "It's Micky!" He exclaimed, and everything got quiet as the onlookers waited with baited breath, excited at the drama about to unfold.

Jenna looked up at Micky's horrified expression, and something like concern flashed through her eyes. She paused in her attack and Penny ran back a few feet, glancing from Micky to Jenna in panic.

"M-Micky!" Penny said, her voice higher than it usually was. "Micky, I'm sorry, really, I am! P-please, it was an accident, I swear!"

Micky blinked. "What?" He asked dazedly. This didn't make any sense.

"She's cheating on you," Jenna said bluntly. "I caught her sneaking off behind here with Tony Baker, so I followed her, and they were kissing."

Micky shook his head. "No," he said quietly, not believing it, refusing to believe it. Penny wasn't a cheater, she couldn't be a cheater. Penny was sweet and funny and good and helped him write beautiful music. And Tony was a friend of Micky's, they were in the same science class and usually sat together at lunch. They would never betray him like that.

Penny was crying now as Jenna fidgeted nervously. "I've heard the rumors for awhile now," she admitted quietly. "But I never thought they were true until now."

Micky couldn't believe it. There were rumors that Penny was cheating on him. It was the stuff of gossip. That meant people knew about it, it was well known, and he hadn't suspected a thing.

"Micky, I'm s-sorry!" Penny cried, and Micky looked at her. "Is it true?" He asked, hoping, praying that she would say no and have some sort of explanation, so they could forget about these horrible lies and get back to the way it had been.

Penny hesitated for a moment, before she nodded, still crying silently. "It w-was an a-accident," she said. "I d-didn't mean to cheat on you, r-really, I didn't."

"How?" Micky asked, still too stunned to really register what was happening. He had meant "How could you do this to me," but Penny seemed to think she was asking how she'd come to cheat on him.

"I-it was at Kelly's p-party last week," she said. "You were g-gone on that trip with the b-band, and I was there alone, and T-Tony was alone, and we... we..."

She didn't get any farther, Micky turned and began to walk away. He didn't want to listen anymore, he wanted to just get as far away as possible, as fast as possible.

"Micky!" Penny called, running after him. "M-Micky, please, I'm s-sorry!"

Micky looked at her again, the shock was ebbing away, and he was beginning to feel the hurt, heartbreak and betrayal that was associated with being cheated on.

"How could you?" He asked her, and she flinched. "I didn't mean to," she said. "It was an accident. We just... fell in love, all of a sudden. We couldn't help it!"

Micky stopped and looked her in the eyes, as if he could read her soul through them. "When were you going to tell me?" He asked quietly. Penny hesitated again, and her eyes told him everything.

She hadn't planned to tell him, she was going to lead him along and keep him in the dark, a fool of a boyfriend, oblivious to the fact that the girl he loved was playing with his emotions.

"Please forgive me!" she whispered, and Micky wanted to. He wanted to forgive her and tell her that it was alright, that they could forget this and go on with their happy lives. He wanted to forgive her so bad that it hurt.

But first, Micky had one more question. "Me or him?" He asked. Penny paused. "W-what?" She said. "You heard me," Micky said, frowning. "Me or him. You have to choose."

Penny looked at him, mouth open, as if she couldn't think of the right thing to say.

"Come on, it shouldn't be that hard!" Micky snapped. "Make your choice! You have to choose. Either you choose me, or you choose him. If you choose him, then congratulations to you both, you deserve each other. And if you choose me, I'll forgive you."

"I'm not saying we'll still be together," he said. "But we can be friends, and one day, maybe things will work out between us. But first, you have to choose."

He waited, unable to breathe, feeling his heart race as she looked at him, still crying.

He could feel his fingers shaking, despite the forgotten hot cocoa he still held tight. This was it.

He saw the answer in her eyes before she spoke. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Then she turned around and walked back over to where Tony had been standing by, watching the exchange worriedly. His face was red and he looked at Micky, as if he also were asking for forgiveness, but Micky didn't give him the same choice. As far as he was concerned, they could both live and die together, and never talk to him again.

The Washington Rhymer was gone from his life, along with all her beautiful words.

Turning away in disgust, he walked back up to where Peter and his mom were waiting. He could tell that they realized something was wrong, but he wasn't ready to tell them what had happened just yet.

* * *

"Hey, Jenna!" Micky called, running up to where his sister was saying goodbye to her friends before climbing into their mom's car.

The game was over, the other team had won, but Micky had barely noticed. He'd been focusing completely on playing his best when the band played, and keeping himself warm when they weren't.

Jenna waited for him and her friends left as he ran up. She didn't say anything, but she didn't roll her eyes or deliberately ignore him, which was a marked improvement.

"Jenna," Micky said again as he reached her and slowed to a stop. "I wanted to thank you, for today," he said. "If you hadn't caught her, with him, I don't know when I would've found out."

"No problem," she said awkwardly, staring at the ground. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, before Micky spoke up.

"So... I thought you didn't care about me anymore," he prompted. Jenna looked up at him.

"You're still an annoying immature dork," she said. "But... you're my brother. Nobody uses my brother and gets away with it."

Micky smiled. "You mean you forgive me?" he asked excitedly. Jenna tried to keep her serious expression, but a half-smile managed to slip through.

"Yeah," she said. "I forgive you. And guess what?"

"What?" Micky asked. Jenna broke into a full grin now. "When I caught her kissing that jerk, I shoved my hot dog in her face," she said. "And I think she got some mustard up her nose."

Micky laughed bitterly. It was a small condolence, but a condolence none the less. "Well," he said. "Thanks for having my back. I'm glad to have you as a sister."

"And I'm glad to have a brother again," Jenna said. Then, doing something that was a little bit out of character, she suddenly lunged forward and hugged him, tight.

"Take care of yourself," she said. "Don't make me bail you out again, got it?"

Micky smiled, hugging her back. "Got it," he said as their mom smiled at them from the front seat of the car. She was happy that they'd finally made up.

After a second longer, Micky pulled away from the hug and forced a smile. "Well, I gotta go," he said. "Peter should be done picking up all the garbage around the bleachers by now, he's probably waiting for me." Jenna got into the car. "Bye, Micky," She said. "Bye, Jenna," Micky replied, almost adding his now-standard apology to the end of his farewell, simply because it had become a habit.

But there was no reason to say it now, she'd finally forgiven him. Sighing, he turned to the field and began to look for Peter. He was tired from all that had happened and was ready to go home and sleep.


	13. When It Matters

**Ventura, CA, one year and 8 months prior:**

Micky and Peter were at an audition, their two man act finally getting off the ground and starting to get a little bit of recognition in Ventura.

They had figured out the best way to go about the act, they would start off with a bit of comedy, usually having something to do with the drums, as they had space to fill while Micky set them up. Peter would play the bass and sometimes his new banjo that Micky had gotten him for Christmas, and Micky would play the drums and they would take turns singing.

They were managing to earn a little bit of money, most of which they were saving for their trip to LA when Micky turned 18.

They were backstage getting ready to go on when a rather buff guitarist from one of the other acts knocked over Micky's wheeled cart, causing his drums to topple to the ground. Then he tripped over the upturned cart and stumbled. Trying to regain his balance, he stepped right on Micky's bass drum.

Micky let out a small yelp as the man's boot went right through the skin on his drum, which ripped as easily as if it were paper. The man stepped out of the drum and looked down at it. "Oops," he said, smirking. Micky didn't even look at him, he had eyes only for his ruined kick drum.

He bent down and picked it up, trying not to cry. He was 17, 17 year old men didn't cry. He had to be strong, it was just a drum anyway. Just a low quality, bought used, two year old drum. Just a sentimental christmas present from his best friend, drum. He choked back his tears, trying as hard as he could to convince himself that it was just a drum.

"You'd better be planning to pay for that." Micky recognized the voice, it was Peter's voice, but at the same time, he'd never heard this voice before. It was low and quiet, full of anger, but very calm. He looked up at Peter, who was staring at the guitarist. His face was emotionless but there was a look in his eyes that Micky hadn't seen once in the two and a half years that he'd known Peter.

The guitarist laughed. "You serious?" He asked Peter. "I'm not going to pay for anything, it was his fault anyway. He pushed his cart in front of me." Peter raised his eyebrows. "He did no such thing," he said calmly. "You walked right over to him and pushed the cart on purpose, I saw you."

The guitarist seemed to realize then that Peter was not going to give in anytime soon. He frowned and folded his arms across his chest. "Oh yeah?" he said. "I think you need to get your eyes checked, blondie. I was just minding my own business when your little friend here pushed his cart in front of me and tripped me. If his precious little drum got broken, it's his fault. I ain't payin' for nothin'!"

He turned to walk away, and Peter quickly walked over and passed him, stopping in front of the man. "You intentionally sabotaged our act and, and damaged our property," Peter said quietly. "If you don't pay for the drum right now, I'm going to report you to the event manager, and you'll be disqualified!"

"Oh yeah?" The guitarist pursed his lips and drew himself up to his full height. He was about a head taller than Peter, and he was very muscled, but Peter didn't so much as blink. "You tell the manager and you'll be sorry!" The man snarled.

Micky swallowed nervously. He didn't want to watch, he wanted to cover his eyes so he wouldn't see Peter get pummeled, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Peter didn't move, he just stood there and glared unflinchingly into the guitarist's eyes. After a second, which seemed like an eternity to Micky, the guitarist scoffed and shoved past Peter.

Micky breathed a sigh of relief. He had been sure that Peter was going to be hit. Peter glared after the guitarist for a moment, and then he turned to Micky. "You alright?" He asked his younger friend. Micky laughed.

"Yeah, all things considering," he said, his voice shaking. At least one good thing had come from the almost-fight Peter had just gotten into, the fear Micky had felt for his friend had chased away his threatening tears once and for all.

Peter nodded. "Well," he said. "I'll go withdraw from the audition and report the sabotage."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Micky cried, standing up and grabbing Peter's arm as he began to walk away. Peter paused and looked at him. "What's the matter?" he said. Micky laughed. "What's the matter!?" he repeated. "You almost got slugged, that's what's the matter! So what if some jerk broke my bass drum? It's fine, I can get another one! We don't need to report this, what if he comes back for revenge!?"

Peter sighed. "It's not just the bass drum," he said. "It's the whole principle of the thing. He did this on purpose, so we couldn't play in the act. He ruined our chances at the prize money, and then he lied about it, and then he threatened me. If I don't report this, then he'll get away with it."

With that, Peter walked away towards the event manager. Micky took a few deep breaths, trying to steady his nerves as he gathered his drums and stacked them back on the cart.

After a few minutes, Peter came back. "I explained what happened to the event manager," he said. "He took our name off the list and said he'd disqualify the other act."

Micky sighed. "Well, I hope we did the right thing," he said. Peter smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "Things'll get better eventually. Things always do."

* * *

As they were walking back to the hotel later that night, Micky suddenly felt the drum cart being yanked out of his hands. "Hey!" He turned around and froze. The guitarist was there, along with the other two members of his band.

Grinning, the buff man dumped the drum set on the ground and began jumping on them. Micky felt his mouth drop open and his eyes get wide, as each stomp felt like a punch to his stomach. Vaguely he registered movement out of the corner of his eye, and he thought he heard laughter somewhere in the distance.

Stomping on the last drum, the guitarist stopped and smiled up past Micky. No longer mesmerized by the destruction of his cherished drum set, Micky snapped to attention and realized what he had seen and heard.

Next to him, Peter was angrily struggling against two of the band members, who were holding him down. When he saw what was happening, Peter had tried to run over and stop the guitarist, but the others had been quick to restrain him. They were laughing at him now, as he struggled helplessly against the two stronger guys.

"I told you you'd be sorry," The guitarist said gloatingly. "You sorry yet?" Peter didn't answer, instead he just stopped struggling and looked at the guitarist, red-faced and with hate in his eyes.

It was such a foreign look for Peter that Micky almost didn't recognize his friend. He felt like he was looking at a complete stranger. He stared at Peter as the guitarist laughed nearby. Suddenly, he heard a crash and a twang. Turning back to the guitarist, Micky looked in horror at what was in his hands.

Peter's new banjo, or rather, Peter's banjo's neck. Splintered off near the head, which now lay in pieces at the guitarist's feet. The guitarist laughed and snapped the neck a second time, breaking it over his knee. He tossed the remains to the ground and looked at Peter, who still glared at the man, not backing down.

"Still not sorry, eh?" The man snarled. "Fine." Suddenly the man rushed forward and punched Peter in the stomach. Peter gasped in pain and tried to double over, but the two men on either side were holding him up. "HEY!" Micky cried out running forward as the guitarist was about to give another punch.

He grabbed the guitarist's arm and tried to pull him back. The man paused and looked at Micky. "Well, the little drummer boy wants in on the action, eh?" He said, smiling. "N-no," Peter panted. "Not M-Micky, plea... please!"

Micky began to back away, not taking his eyes off the much bigger man. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to come up with some sort of plan to get them both out of this. He was fast and he knew the streets of Ventura well, he could run and probably get to safety with relative ease, but there was no way he was leaving Peter behind in the hands of these jerks.

He briefly thought about fighting, but dismissed the idea almost before it had come to him. Even if he _was_ strong enough to take on the leader, there were still two more holding down Peter.

Maybe he could try to dance around the leader, rush and duck and run and generally put his scampering skills to use and tire the man out.

The man took another step towards him and Peter began struggling again, much more desperately than before. There was no more time for thinking. He would have to go with his last plan.

He ducked as the man rushed forward, swinging his arm out to connect with what would have been Micky's jaw, but was now open air. Micky jumped back to his feet behind the man and ran about five steps before turning around.

The guitarist seemed momentarily confused by the lack of Micky on his fist and turned around, his gaze fixing on Micky. He rushed forward again, and Micky sidestepped him, causing the man to lose his balance and stumble towards the ground. He caught himself before he hit the dirt, however, and turned again to get at Micky.

Now the real fight began. The guitarist kept swinging and advancing and getting generally more and more angry that he couldn't catch Micky, and Micky kept ducking and running and bouncing around.

"HOLD STILL, YOU LITTLE MONKEY!" He shouted. Micky surprisingly obeyed and stopped about six feet away from the man. Now thoroughly foaming-at-the-mouth mad, he ran to tackle Micky. Micky had been expecting that, and almost smiled as the bigger man rushed over to him. Micky stood still until the exact right moment, and then jumped out of the way.

The man tried to stop, but he was going too fast. He tripped over Micky's broken snare drum and fell headlong into one of the men holding Peter. The result was a domino effect ending in a pile of groaning musicians, which would have been funny if Peter wasn't one of them.

"Peter!" Micky exclaimed, running over and pulling Peter to his feet and away from the others. "Peter, are you okay?" Peter panted, trying to catch his breath, but he nodded. "Alright then," Micky said, pulling on Peter's arm as he began to run. "Let's go!"

And so the two of them ran, they ran for all they were worth. Micky was heading toward the hotel when Peter pulled against him. "No, wait," he said. Micky stopped. "Wait!?" He said. "We can't wait! They might be right behind us!" Peter shook his head. "Police station," he said, leaning over and clutching his side with his free hand. "We... we've gotta go to- to the police station..." Micky was about to argue when they heard a shout from behind them. So they turned and kept running, Micky leading the way to the police station.

* * *

"Well, boys, we caught 'em," The police officer said, walking up to where Micky and Peter sat. They were at the station, waiting around so they could get home without the worry of being jumped by revenge-seeking musicians.

"Are you sure?" Micky asked, standing up. The police officer nodded. "Yup," he said. "Buff guitarist, buff pianist, and buff drummer, all limping around in the alleyways, banging trash cans and beating bushes, looking for you two." When Micky still didn't look convinced, The policeman sighed.

"Would it make you feel better if you saw them, and made sure they were the same guys?" He asked. Micky nodded. "Yeah, it would," he said. Turning to Peter, he asked "Are you coming?" Peter stood up. "Yeah," he said. "I probably should."

Micky had tried to get him to go to a doctor, but Peter had insisted that he was fine. "It's not the first time I've taken a punch," he said lightly. "I just had to catch my breath, is all."

Micky still wasn't satisfied, but Peter didn't seem to be very hurt, so Micky finally decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The policeman led the two of them to a small room with a window in it, and through it, they could see the three guys who had jumped them.

Micky nodded. "Yeah, it's them, alright," He said. He looked at Peter, who was looking through the window as well. He was staring at the guitarist and frowning slightly, as if he was confused about something.

"Peter?" Micky asked. Peter blinked and turned to Micky. "Hmm?" He said. "Do you think they're the same guys?" Micky asked, more for the policeman's benefit then his own. Peter nodded. "Oh yeah," he said. That's them." The policeman clapped his hands together once and stepped forward. "Alright then," He said. "Goodnight, boys! Have a safe walk."

* * *

"You know, I really wish he hadn't said that," Micky said as they stepped onto the dark street. He looked at Peter, who wasn't saying anything, just looking off into the distance as they began to walk back to the hotel.

"Peter, what's the matter?" Micky asked. Peter looked at him. "Hmm? Oh!" He said. "Nothing, I just... I'm sorry, Micky, this was all my fault..." Micky looked at him, stunned. "How was any of this your fault?" He exclaimed. Peter kicked at a rock. "Well," he said. "If-if I hadn't told the event manager, than that guy wouldn't've followed us, and then you would still have your drums, and you wouldn't've had to fight..."

Micky was beginning to understand. "Peter," he said. "This wasn't your fault! That guy shoved my cart over and ruined my bass drum, you did the right thing by getting him disqualified! Then _he_ made the choice to follow us and get us back, there wasn't anything you could've done to stop it. _He_ did those things, not you. So don't feel bad, and don't apologize!"

Micky rolled his eyes as he talked. "For heaven's sake, I get tired of hearing you say you're sorry all the time!" Peter laughed. "Sorry, Micky..." he said. Micky looked at him. "Oh, oops," Peter said, realizing that he'd apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... Oh, I mean... oh, what's the bother?"

By now they were both laughing, and the rest of the walk home was a fairly pleasant one.

That night, Micky lay awake in his bed and heard Peter talking in his sleep. "No..." he was muttering. "Not Micky, _please_..." Micky rolled over and sighed. He hated to admit it, but the whole ordeal had shaken him up pretty bad. Not just because an angry musician had tried to beat him up, not just because he'd lost his drum set, but because of Peter.

Peter had been a friend to Micky for a long time. He'd been there for him when his dad had passed away, he'd helped him get over Penny, and he'd been the one who inspired him to get into music in the first place.

Peter was much more than a room-mate or a friend, or even a best friend. Peter was a brother to Micky, and even though, technically, yeah, Peter was the oldest, Micky still felt responsible for him in a way.

And he knew that Peter felt the same, because even though he was the one who was targeted, even though he was the one who was hit, he never once worried about himself.

The only part of the ordeal that had scared Peter could be summed up with four little words. _No, not Micky,_ _please..._


	14. And Then There Were Four Part 1

Notes: This is my counterpart to Crystal Rose of Pollux's chapter of the same name, as such, there will be all the same dialogue, and a few identical paragraphs as well. These are Micky and Peter's points of view, of the time when they met Davy and Mike.

* * *

**Ventura, CA, one year, three months prior:**

This was it. Peter and Micky were at the bus stop, bags in hand, as they said their goodbyes. Micky's mom was trying to hold back a few uncooperative tears and Jenna hopped in place.

"You have to write me as soon as you reach LA," she was saying. "And you have to tell me all about the skyscrapers and the stores and any famous people you meet."

Micky nodded. "And you have to write me back," he said. "And tell me all about home and mom and any boys you meet."

"Micky!" She said, laughing. "I'm being serious," he said. "You meet any boys, I want to be the first to know. I'll grab the first private jet out here to Ventura and tell you if he's worth the trouble."

Peter, meanwhile, was talking to Aunt Franny, who had also come to see them off. "I've packed you both a lunch," she said, handing a brown paper bag to Peter. "Don't let Micky see it until you're both hungry, or he'll eat both portions. Although, he could do with some meat on his bones, he's so skinny..."

She shook her head at Micky's skinniness and then handed Peter a crisp fifty dollar bill. "And this is for emergencies," she said. "Keep it hidden, keep it safe, and don't use it until you feel you have reached the last little bit of your luck."

Peter nodded and smiled at Aunt Franny. "Thanks," he said. She looked at him and smiled back. "Oh dear," she said, her eyes welling with tears. "I shall miss you both dreadfully! Whatever am I supposed to do now, with no boys tearing through my kitchen, making a racket and eating my food?"

Peter leaned in and gave her a hug. "Just say meatloaf," he said. "And I'm sure that wherever we are, Micky will hear you and come running."

Aunt Franny laughed. "Peter, you always know just what to say," she said. "And when you don't, you make up for it with your good natured heart!" Peter wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that, but he knew it was a compliment of some sort, so he smiled. "Thanks," he said.

"Hey, kids," the bus driver said. "Either get on the bus or go away! I don't got all day!" Micky turned to the driver. "Yeah, yeah!" He said. "Hold your horses, we'll be on soon!"

He turned back to Jenna and gave her a hug, picking her up and spinning her once. She gave a small surprised yelp and slugged his shoulder playfully when he set her down. Then he hugged Aunt Franny, who seemed to have caught the sniffles. Then he turned to his mom, who was still trying not to cry.

"Bye, mom," he said, hugging her. "Goodbye, Micky," she said. "Go, follow your dreams. But remember, you'll always have a home here if you want to come back." Micky nodded before letting go and turning to the bus. He waited as Peter hugged Jenna and his mom, and then Peter picked up his guitar case with his bass in it and his bag of clothes and climbed onto the bus.

They wouldn't have any act at all without drums, so after the events of what Micky referred to as The Case of the Evil Musicians, they had dipped into their LA fund to buy a new set. Micky had a large case with the golden drums packed in it as well as his bag of clothes, and he struggled with pulling them onto the bus. Peter set his stuff down and went to give Micky a hand as the bus driver rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.

"Hurry it up," he barked, as Micky and Peter tried to get the case through the door. Almost right after the driver said that, the case cleared the door and Micky and Peter both went flying backwards into the driver.

After they finally got settled into their seats, with the case safely stored in the baggage compartment and the driver giving them many spiteful little glares through the rearview mirror, the bus started and they were off.

The bus ride was fairly uneventful, they played a few road games, they talked with a lady who sat in the row across from them, and Micky accidentally shot a rubber band at the driver while he was making a rubber-band ball.

Needless to say, the driver was more than happy when the two of them took their things and stepped off the bus stop in LA.

"Wow, Peter, I'm finally here!" Micky said excitedly, the smile never leaving his face.

"Yeah, it sure is fun," Peter said, smiling himself. It was just another city to Peter, but somehow, a bit of Micky's excitement was rubbing off on him, and he looked around happily at his new hometown.

* * *

It wasn't very long, however, before LA began to lose it's luster for the two boys. Micky, who was practically just starting out in life, soon realized that the road to fame was not as easy to travel as he had always thought, and Peter, who had gotten used to routine life, found the transition back to traveling a bit difficult.

They found a cheap hotel in the center of town, and stayed there for a few days while Peter looked for more permanent housing and Micky, who still claimed a foreknowledge about such things, immediately started digging around town for gigs.

Peter soon found a small, but nice apartment in a complex in the center of town, and they paid the first month rent in advance, leaving only a little for food and other necessities.

He was a little reluctant at first to use so much of their small reserve of money, but Micky promised that the two of them would find work in no time, and would have more money by the time the next months' rent was due.

* * *

**Los Angeles, CA, One year, two months prior:**

They were out of food and didn't have enough money to pay the next months rent, and what's more, neither of them even had a job to earn money for the future.

Peter had landed a job earlier that month, washing cars at a local car wash, but had been fired after the first day after tripping over a hose and drenching his new boss in hot soapy water.

Micky had been looking for a job in the only profession he had ever known; a hotel concierge, but no hotels wanted to hire the long-haired weirdo.

So now, they were getting kicked out of the apartment.

They didn't really mind that much, the landlord had been mean anyway, and they weren't allowed to play their music, talk in anything louder than a hushed tone, and walk loudly, as it gave him a headache.

But still, they had no idea how they were going to get by now. Without a steady place to live, they couldn't find a steady job. Without a steady job, they couldn't earn a steady paycheck. And without a steady paycheck, they couldn't afford a steady place to live.

That night, Peter remembered with sudden clarity how horrible life on the streets could be.

He found them a nice little spot to stay, hidden from anyone who didn't know how to look for one. But it was still too open for his tastes.

They had been forced to leave most of their stuff behind, but they still had a lot of luggage to drag around, which made them an ideal target if any thugs happened to spot them. Peter had his bass, his amplifier, and a small duffel bag full of clothes, and Micky had his new drum set all packed up on a cart, and a backpack of clothes for himself.

Not to mention Peter could feel Aunt Franny's fifty dollar bill burning a hole in the secret pocket inside his jacket, along with the last of their reserve and the small amount they'd earned by busking. It hadn't been enough money to pay for the rent, and without a place to store groceries, he hadn't been able to buy food.

But now, he worried about what would happen if they were to get jumped and he was found to have so much money on his person.

Besides the fear of being jumped or robbed, it was also cold and dark, two things that Peter hated with a passion. He shivered under his jacket, it wasn't winter anymore, summer was right around the corner, but that didn't matter at night.

And when it was dark, every little sound, every small shadow, seemed to grow out of proportion until Peter was certain some monster lived down the alley, some beast growled out in the night.

And on top of that, Peter was uncomfortable. He had been sleeping in a bed for the past two and a half years, it was very hard to return to sitting on the concrete with your back against a cold brick wall.

So he returned to his old habit of keeping very still all night, staring at the darkness until his eyes were adjusted, and keeping careful watch over his possessions until morning came.

He had often done that when he traveled, and he had gotten used to needing little sleep. The longest he had ever gone without any sleep was four days, before he had been so exhausted that he had barely been able to sit down before he'd slept, and then he would wake up a few hours later, and start the cycle all over again.

And that was during the good times. Sometimes you weren't so lucky. Sometimes it rained. Sometimes it snowed. Sometimes you got a midnight visit from rats. Sometimes you were jumped.

That was life on the streets, and now Peter realized there was no way he could let anything like that happen to Micky.

Tomorrow, no matter what happened, he would find them a place to stay, he would find a job, and he would make sure Micky was well taken care of.

* * *

**Malibu, CA, One year, one month prior:**

This was it, their last shot. The end of their luck. Peter took the precious fifty dollars out of his pocket and handed it to the woman who was letting them stay in her spare room.

They had hopped from hotel to room to apartment and back to hotel until they weren't even really in LA anymore, but in nearby Malibu, still looking for work, downgrading with every new place to afford the cheaper rent.

So Peter sighed as the woman pocketed the very last of their money, and led them to their new room.

It was certainly a sight to see, it was tiny, only half the size of their old hotel room, and it was ugly, with faded brown wall paper covered in bright yellow birds flying around red flowers. There was no window, and the only furnishings in the room was a creaky bed and a scratched up old reclining chair that no longer reclined.

But, the fifty dollars paid for the whole month, plus three meals a day, and nobody ever said they had to spend every waking moment here.

Peter knew Micky well enough to not argue, and took the bed willingly enough. He was tired anyway, from all the stress of not only moving back out into the big, bad world, but having the added pressure of taking care of someone else while he was at it.

They were going to have to work twice as hard from now on, looking for any job they could take every day, and spending all their evenings playing music in bus stations and on street corners. This room was the bottom of the barrel, if they got thrown out of this place, they would simply have to give up on the act for now and hitch-hike back to Ventura. They wouldn't even have enough money for a bus trip.

* * *

**Malibu, CA, one year prior:**

Micky and Peter were sitting in some seats backstage at the Great Oak Theater, putting up a front of complete and utter ease.

They had gotten over pre-act jitters years ago, but the sheer importance of this audition had started the butterflies up again. They knew, however, that if you looked like you knew what you were doing, people believed you knew what you were doing, and that was very important to the people hiring them.

They had been sitting their for about ten minutes when two other guys came and sat in the empty seats next to them.

Peter glanced up at them and decided they were certainly another act, judging by their costumes. The taller of the two boys was wearing a gaudy cowboy costume of red and blue, with shiny stars on it, and the shorter and obviously younger boy was wearing some sort of red uniform Peter couldn't place.

"I think we're in for quite a wait" The short boy said quietly. He spoke in a British accent, and Peter perked his ears. That wasn't something you heard every day. In fact, he'd only ever talked to one other person with a British accent before. "Everyone and their dog seems to be here…" The boy continued.

"Well, $250 isn't small change; I can't blame them…" Said the cowboy. "We're really going to have to stand out."

He set his guitar case down, accidentally knocking it against Micky's gold drum set. Peter's mind immediately turned to that night last year, when Micky's first drum set had been destroyed, but he shook that thought away. These two guys didn't seem all that tough or mean.

"Oh, sorry…" The cowboy said, glancing down at Micky's drums.

"Eh, that's okay…" Micky said absently. "They didn't exactly give us a lot of room to work with."

"Yeah," Peter said, adjusting the guitar strapped to his shoulders. It sure was uncomfortable, with the back of the chair pressing the bass into his back. "I kept my case in the prop room so that no one would trip over it."

"Uh-huh," said the Cowboy, before everything lapsed into silence.

Micky continued to send discreet glances at the other act, and Peter could tell that he had heard what they'd said about money earlier. "So you guys are in this to win the money, huh?" he asked.

"Aren't we all?" asked the short boy.

"Well, we sure are," Peter said with a sigh. "We ran out of money for the bed and breakfast we've been staying in. We've got to win this; that's our lodging money up there."

"It's a living, though," Micky said, shrugging it off. "We've just gotta believe we can win this."

The two boys in costume looked at each other, something seemed to be wrong.

"…Was it something I said?" Micky asked in confusion.

"That's your lodging money?" the short one asked. "That… just happens to be our rent money, too."

"We've got the crankiest landlord in the history of landlords…" said the cowboy, and now it was Micky and Peter's turn to look at each other uncomfortably.

It was one thing to be in it for the money, and they truly did need the money, but for the first time, it occurred to Peter that other people really needed the money too. Who was to say that they truly deserved to win? Maybe the other boys needed it even more than they did. Maybe they had families to take care of, our worse, maybe they didn't have any family at all to care of them.

"…Well, this is awkward," Micky said. It now appeared that they were sharing their seats with someone who needed the money just as much as they did, if not more.

"You said it," the cowboy agreed.

More silence followed. There didn't seem to be an easy way out of this; someone was going to lose.

Nobody said anything, and it was soon time for the auditions. Micky and Peter and their seat-neighbors watched as the various performances took place; some of them were good, and some of them fell flat on their faces.

"Entry 17," the judge called. "Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer?"

Micky and Peter stood up and made their way to the stage, where Micky gave Peter a small smile, as if to reassure him that they were going to do just fine, and then launched into the comedy routine they had chosen to do this night, his James Cagney impression.

"Alright you dirty rats, listen up and listen good," he said harshly to his drums as began to unload them. "Cause I'm only gonna say this once. I'm lookin' for a man, and you know where he is. If you know what's good for ya, you'll help me find 'im.""

Of course, the drum didn't respond, so Micky shook it a little as he set it down. "Not talkin', eh?" He said. "Listen up, you yellow bellied rat, that man has ten thousand dollars with him, and that money belongs to me. I aim to get it back, and you're gonna help me!"

Micky's fingers slipped and he dropped the next drum, but he simply ad-libbed as he picked it up. "Oh, we've got ourselves a wise guy, here!" He said, looking at Peter. "You know what we do with wise guys?"

"Oh, please, go easy on him!" Peter said dramatically, giving his bass a small twang to make sure it was tuned.

"Oh, don't worry!" Micky said in his best mob boss voice. "I'm not a mean guy. I'm gonna take care of this clown real good."

Peter gasped. "No," he said. "You don't mean!?"

Micky set down the drum and picked up the next one, which appeared to agitate him even further. "Mmm!" He groaned. "You!" Peter looked at the drum in mock horror and sympathy as Micky began shaking his head strangely. "You're the rat, who killed my bother!"

They went on for a short while as Micky finished setting up his drums.

Once the set was ready, Micky sat down, glanced up and gave a slight nod to Peter, who began playing the bass line to their song Words, a song Micky had written almost a year and a half ago, but they hadn't performed very often until recently.

As soon as Micky started singing, (with Peter singing backup, of course,) Peter closed his eyes and focused on the music.

At the same time, he listened to Micky's voice, paying attention to how Micky was doing. He did this every time they played this song, as it had been written for a particular Master of Words, who had broken Micky's heart, and every time they sang it, Micky seemed to get over her just a little bit more.

Once the song was over, the audience burst into applause, and Peter thought he might just be imagining things, but they seemed to be clapping for them louder than they had clapped for anyone else so far.

Even the judge smiled at them as the announcer walked up onto the stage to announce the next act. "Entry 18," he called. "Lone Star and Union Jack?"

As Micky and Peter made their way off the stage, they were passed by their two seat neighbors from earlier. Lone Star and Union Jack, the judge had said. Now the costumes made a bit more sense. The cowboy had to be Lone Star, and the short British boy had to be Union Jack.

Now that Peter thought about it, the short boy's red coat did seem like a picture of a Royal Guard he'd seen once, except the guard in the picture had been wearing a hat. Briefly, he wondered why the boy didn't have one. It sure would have made his costume more realistic. Maybe he hadn't been able to find one.

As they passed each other, Peter gave them a small smile, trying to wish them luck. They seemed like nice people, and if he and Micky didn't win, he wanted the prize money to go to someone else in need.

"How do you think we did?" Micky whispered as they sat back down. Peter let out a sigh of relief and sat down next to him. "I'm not sure," he said. "But I haven't been that nervous in a long time. I'm glad it's over!"

"Hopefully, it's not over yet!" Micky responded. "If we make it to the next round, we have to actually participate in tonight's contest."

Peter was about to respond when the Lone Star and Union Jack started singing. He forgot all about talking then.

The short boy was playing the tambourine and the cowboy was playing guitar, but that wasn't what held their attention. The short boy was singing an upbeat song about how life was better now that he was in love.

"Wow, they're good!" Micky whispered nervously. Peter smiled and nodded. They truly were good, although the song had a sort of country feel to it, and the British accent didn't quite mesh with the sound.

Peter watched breathlessly throughout the performance, for some reason feeling happy that this act was doing so well. At one point during the song, Micky nudged him and pointed nervously at the judge, who was smiling at the other act.

The song ended, and Peter turned back to watch the other act begin a second song. The cowboy started playing his guitar, and Peter could tell this song was even more country than the first one. But, surprisingly enough, the British kid started singing this one too.

Peter frowned. Maybe the cowboy couldn't sing. But that didn't make sense, he'd obviously written it, the song had country western written all over it. But he decided that whatever the reason, the song was good, and he closed his eyes to listen better.

That was what it was all about, wasn't it? Money came and went, gigs would always be there, LA would never run out of stars. This, right here right now, was about the music, and whether or not this act won or lost, they had good music, and Peter was resolved to enjoy it.

Halfway through the sad song, a small twang could be heard, and Peter opened his eyes as the guitar stopped playing. The cowboy and the short boy were staring at each other, eyes wide, and Peter could just make out the broken string dangling from the guitar. He gave a small quiet gasp and leaned forward, wondering what on earth was going to happen next.

Then the British kid jumped forward and held his microphone up to the cowboy so they both could sing into it. Peter was confused. If the cowboy could sing, why hadn't he been singing all along?

He listened as the two finished their song, the British kid slipping into a beautiful harmony.

The last line of the song brought tears to Peter's eyes, although he quickly wiped them away before Micky saw.

_And if in the end we should go_

_Both our separate ways I know_

_the lessons I've learned here is worth it all._

It made him think of Micky, and how, without Micky, Peter would never have even thought about performing his music, and he was suddenly struck with what would happen if something were to happen, and the two of them went their separate ways.

When they were finished, the audience clapped and applauded, perceptively louder than they had for almost every other act.

The act walked down off the stage and began talking as they walked back to their seats. As they got closer, Peter and Micky could hear what they were saying.

"...Come on, Tiny; that was a fluke…" Said the cowboy.

"That was no fluke!" Said the British kid. "Not only was it _not_ a disaster and _not_ a fluke, the audience _liked_ your singing."

"Gosharooney, you bet we did!" Micky exclaimed as the two sat down and the cowboy began rooting through his guitar case. "I'll bet you anything that tonight's gonna come down to you versus us!"

"Yeah!" Peter agreed, before he blinked in confusion. Perhaps it had all been some kind of ploy, play with the judge's heartstrings a little. "_Wow, if they're that good after a disaster, then..." _He could just see that happening. "You… you didn't actually _plan_ for that string to go, did you?"

"Are you kidding, Man?" The cowboy said, giving Peter one of_ those _looks.

"I didn't think so…" Peter said, feeling his face get red. He must've said something dumb again.

The cowboy smiled and turned his attention back to the guitar case, but his smile soon faded as his search through his guitar case came up empty.

"Agh, I don't believe it," he said. "I don't have a spare G!"

The British kid winced.

"You mean we have to go out and buy one?" He said.

"Well, you don't have to; you're more than welcome to stay here and check out the rest of the competition," The cowboy explained. "I can go and make a quick run to the nearest music store."

Well, there was no reason for that, if the two of them needed money as bad as he and Micky did, they shouldn't have to buy another string, not when he himself had a spare.

"Hey," he said to the cowboy. "I'm sure I've got a spare G in my guitar case; you can have it!"

The cowboy looked up at him, blinking in surprise.

"Really?" He asked.

"Sure!" Peter said, smiling. "Just because we're rivals doesn't mean we shouldn't help each other out."

"Well, I'm much obliged, Shotgun," Said the cowboy, tipping his hat.

Peter blinked. "You're welcome… I think," he said. "First time I've ever been called that…"

"He means it as a term of endearment," the British kid assured him. "Same reason why he's always calling me 'Tiny…' I'm Davy, by the way—and this is Mike; you can probably guess from the accents and the costumes that he's Lone Star, and I'm Union Jack."

"I'm Peter," said Peter. "Connecticut Yankee."

"And that would make me the California Dreamer," Micky said, grinning. "Name's Micky." He turned back to Peter. "Hey, I thought you were gonna give them that G-string?"

"Oh, right!" Peter exclaimed. "I'll go get it…"

"Actually, maybe I'll follow your example and leave my guitar case in the prop room, too," Mike said, picking it up. "Lead on."

Peter indeed led the way, and the conversation continued as they walked.

"So how long have you guys been doing this act?" Micky asked.

"About a year and a half," Davy said. "You?"

"Oh, we've been at this for a while—couldn't even tell you how long," Micky replied. "Peter and I have been traveling around Southern California, just playing for anyone willing to hire us."

"It's not going too well, though," Peter confessed.

"Yeah, I figured that when you said that you were kipping at a bed and breakfast," Davy said.

"…Kipping?" Micky repeated.

"Oh, you Colonists…" the English boy mused, rolling his eyes.

"One of these days, we're writing a British-slang-to-Texan-drawl phrasebook," Mike deadpanned.

Micky and Peter both got a chuckle out of that, and Peter now opened the door that they had arrived at. Inside the room were rows and rows of shelves with a vast array of items and props stored upon them; Peter's guitar case had been proped up against one of them, and it only took him a moment to find the G-string.

"Here you go," he said, handing it to Mike.

"Thanks; you saved me a lot of trouble," Mike said, stringing it onto his guitar and testing it out. He then rooted through his pockets. "I'll pay you for it if you just give me just a second to find my money."

"Oh, no; please, don't bother!"

"Come on, Man; it's only right—"

"I insist—no strings attached!" Peter said. "…Well, no strings except the actual string, obviously…"

"But you only said just a few seconds ago that you don't have enough money!" Davy pointed out. "For the second time, I might add!"

"It's just a guitar string; it's not like it's… well, something like that," Peter said, glancing at what looked like a jade sculpture of a monkey on one of the shelves.

Davy glanced at it, and he suddenly frowned.

"What's wrong?" Micky asked.

"I've seen that thing somewhere before," Davy said, taking it off of the shelf. "But where?"

"Well, it's probably just a prop from some show you must've seen here," Micky said, waving it off. "Come on; I want to go back to the stage and get a look at the rest of the competition!"

"Hold it," Mike said, now looking at the monkey sculpture, too. "Hold everything for just one second."

He reached into his pockets again, this time coming up with a page of a newspaper.

"Davy? I think I found where you saw that thing before…"

Micky and Peter crowded around him and saw an article about a stolen jade sculpture of a monkey.

"That picture of the missing jade sculpture looks just like that prop!" Peter exclaimed. "Wow, what're the odds of that?"

There was a bit of silence as the four looked from the paper to the figure in the English boy's hands.

"…It _is_ a prop, right?" Peter went on. "I mean, it has to be a prop! This is a prop room; everything in here is supposed to be fake!"

"Yeah—_supposed_ to be," Micky said, resting his chin in his hand as he pondered. "That's also why it'd make sense to stash something here—no one would give it a second look since they'd pass it off as a prop."

"There's that," Mike agreed. "And never mind the fact that all of the objects surrounding where that thing had been are covered in a layer of dust—while that thing didn't even have a speck of dust on it…"

Davy gulped, staring at the thing in his hands.

"You know, it _is_ quite heavy…" he said. "Is… is there an easy way to tell real jade from a replica?"

Micky suddenly paled.

"Well, offhand, I'd say the fact that there are three angry guys standing by the door, blocking any and all means of escape we might have, kinda suggests that we might have the real McCoy here."

The other three turned to face the door in shock, staring down the three thugs in suits glaring back at them—one of them had his hand in his coat pocket, obviously going for some sort of weapon.

"What do you think, Guys?" Micky squeaked, his nervousness making itself known in his voice.

Mike exhaled, and moved in front of Davy. "I reckon we just got ourselves headlong into a whole mess of trouble," he declared.


	15. And Then There Were Four Part 2

_Author's note: This chapter, just like the part one of the same, was mostly written by Crystal Rose of Pollux in her story, Lone Star and Union Jack. Almost all of the dialogue (and some of the descritive stuff as well) was written by Crystal Rose of Pollux, the only exceptions being any part of the story where Peter and Micky are talking while Mike and Davy are gone._

_In the last scene, when Peter and Micky are talking, Peter's response to Micky's desire to be a Monkee is actually a quote from Peter Tork's __screen test when asked why he wanted to be a Monkee._

* * *

**Malibu, CA, one year prior:**

Peter was standing in horror as one of the three thugs pulled a switchblade out of his pocket, but he was soon distracted as Davy frantically shoved the jade into his hands.

At first, Peter was confused. Why would Davy give him the monkey? But then he realized that the thugs had probably seen him with it, and if they were going to protect the monkey, they would have to keep it hidden from the thieves.

So he hastily hid it behind his back as Mike seemed to find his voice. "Well, that's a lovely little knife you got there," he said.

"Shut up, Cowboy," the man holding the knife said. "We want the jade."

One of the other two thugs now stepped forward, pulling Davy out from where Mike was trying to shield him.

"No…!" the Texan exclaimed, reaching out to pull the boy back, but one of the thugs reached out and shoved the Texan, causing him to fall backwards into Peter and Mickey.

"Mike!" Davy cried, struggling with his captor, who hooked an arm around his shoulders, lifting him off of the ground.

The man with the knife now stood in front of them, holding the tip of the blade up, a few inches from English boy's neck.

"N-Not the throat, please…" Davy said, his voice quivering. "I need that throat; I'm a singer…"

"Then tell us what you did with the jade," said the thug with the knife. "You must've palmed it or something. And we want it."

"Let him go!" Mike ordered, as Micky and Peter helped him to his feet. "He's just a kid!"

He moved forward again to try and help him, but the third thug blocked his way.

"Davy!" Mike cried.

"The jade, Shorty. Where is it?" Knife Man asked again.

Peter was suddenly struck by a memory, and their positions were reversed. It was him and Micky surrounded by three thugs, two of them were holding him down, helpless as he watched Micky struggle with the biggest one.

"I have it!" He blurted out. He couldn't just stand by and watch, not again. "He gave it to me when you guys showed up. Please, let him go!"

He stepped forward, holding out the jade figure, but Mike held out an arm to stop him and took the figure from him.

"First you hand Davy over to us, and then you get your jade," He said.

"You ain't in a position to bargain, Cowboy," Knife Man said. "Unless you want your midget friend here receiving a tracheotomy, I suggest you comply with our demands rather than try making up your own."

Peter looked from Davy, who had just cringed, to Mike, who looked desperate.

"Okay, take it! Take it!" The Texan said. "Just don't hurt him!"

He handed the jade figure over to the man blocking his way. Knife Man put the weapon away and gave a nod to Davy's captor, who shoved the boy across the room, where he landed at Mike's feet.

"Davy…!" the Texan gasped, kneeling beside him. "Davy, are you okay?"

"I think so," the English boy said, bravely.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I know you gave the jade to me to keep it safe, and I tried not to say anything…"

"You did the right thing, Pete," Micky said, placing his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You couldn't let them hurt him—or any of us."

"Before we start relaxing, I don't think we're out of the woods just yet," Mike said, as he glanced back at the three thugs. They seemed to be discussing something.

"Just get rid of 'em; they know too much."

"We can't make any decisions without the final word from the boss," Knife Man reminded him. "We'll lock 'em up here until he tells us what to do."

"Lock us up?" Micky yelped. "In _here_? But there're no windows in here! We'll suffocate!"

"Well, that'll solve our problem, then, won't it?" Knife Man mused. "Saves us the trouble of finishing you off. Anyone will think you got locked in here accidentally—and that's what we're going to bank on."

The four boys charged for the door as the thugs departed, but Knife Man quickly locked the deadbolt lock behind him. They pounded on the door, hoping that someone would hear them, but no help came.

"What do we do?" Peter asked fearfully. "Micky's right; with four of us in here, the amount of air is limited."

"We've got to try to break that door," Mike said. "If not all the way open, then at least get it off one of its hinges to let some air in here. Peter, I need you to help me try to kick it. Davy, you and Micky look for an ax."

"An ax?" Davy repeated.

"Anything that can hack into this door!" Mike exclaimed. "There has to be something remotely sharp among those props! I'll even take a screwdriver to undo the hinges—just look for _something_!"

"Right," the English boy said.

With that, Micky and Davy started searching through the shelves as Mike and Peter took turns kicking and tackling the door—and then trying to do so in tandem. Time ticked on and on; all four of them were sweating from their seemingly fruitless efforts and the stuffiness of the room they were in.

"It's not even weakening," the Texan grumbled, massaging his shoulder after having charged into it repeatedly. "Are you guys having any luck?"

"Nope," Micky sighed. "It's like they child-proofed this room and locked away anything remotely dangerous."

"…That's it, then," Peter said, sinking to the floor in despair. "There's no way out." _And all because we wanted to get something from my case_, he thought. The thought made him cringe. "This is all my fault! Why'd I have to go store my guitar case in here? Argh! I really _am_ stupid…!"

"It's a prop room, Shotgun; you did the logical thing," Mike assured him.

"If anything, it's my fault for ever giving that jade a second look," Davy sighed, kicking a small storage box. He seemed to notice something. "Hey, what's this?" He asked.

"Eh, it's just a ventilator shaft," Mike said, casting a glance at it.

"Oh," Davy said.

A moment passed, and the four looked from the grate, to each other, and back again.

"A ventilator shaft!" they repeated, in unison.

"Air!" Micky added, staring at it with almost-shining eyes. "We're saved!" He pushed the box out of the way and sighed as he felt the breeze from the grate. "Ahh… …Hey, look, Guys! There aren't any nails or screws holding this grate in."

"So?" Mike asked.

"Oh, come on!" Micky said, pulling out the grate with a few sharp tugs. "I've seen this in a ton of movies—you get someone to crawl through the air ducts and get out at the next grate—and then he's free!"

"That's an awfully tight fit," Peter said, looking at the rather skinny duct. "We'd need someone really small and skinny…"

"I bet I could manage it!" Davy said eagerly.

"Okay, hold it…" Mike said, turning to Davy. "Davy, don't do this. You don't know what's in there—fan blades or venomous spiders or… all sorts of nasty things. We don't need to try to recreate the Great Escape; we've got a source of air in here, and that's the most important thing. Yeah, those creeps are going to get away with that jade statue, but at least we're going to get out of this eventually."

"Unless their boss says they should make sure we're out of the picture," Micky said. "And then they come back here and see we've got this vent. Then they'll find some other way to finish us off…" He shuddered. "Okay, _I'll_ go."

"Be careful!" Peter pleaded. He had known Micky for more than two years, and he didn't doubt the younger boy's ability to crawl through air-ducts, but Mike's earlier description of fan blades and venomous spiders had him worried.

"Look, I don't think this is such a good idea…" Mike said, but Micky ignored him. If the situation hadn't been so serious, Peter would have found it funny. He had given up reasoning with Micky years ago.

Micky tried to scrunch up his shoulders and fit through the grate, but it soon became clear that his shoulders were too broad; he only made it about a couple feet down the duct before he couldn't move any further.

"…Uh, Guys? Guys? …I'm stuck…"

"Well, stop kicking, and we'll get you out," Mike said, dodging one of Micky's flailing feet.

As they tried to pull Micky from the ductwork, Peter almost laughed, remembering his first day of work at the hotel, when Micky had been in a similar situation under a bed.

Finally, they got Micky out and Peter sat down against the wall. It was all for the best anyway, who knows what kind of trouble Micky could have gotten into?

"Guess it's back to me," Davy said, moving to try. Peter blinked. Hadn't Mike already established he didn't want Davy going into the ducts?

Apparently, Mike thought the same thing, because he seized Davy by the collar of his costume.

"Don't even think about it, Tiny." He said.

"Why is it with him you just said it wasn't a good idea, and for me, it's 'don't even think about it?'" Davy asked, frowning. "It's because I'm short, isn't it?"

"No; it's because I've only known him for half an hour, and, because of that, I can't tell him what to do."

Internally, Peter snickered. _He_ had known Micky for years, and he still couldn't tell Micky what to do either.

"Well, you can't tell me what to do, either," Davy informed him. "You're not my mum!"

"Yeah, well, I'm the closest thing you've got to one over here!"

Peter frowned in confusion, as Micky snickered behind his hand. Davy also seemed a bit perplexed.

"…Somehow, I don't think you _quite_ meant to say that…" The English boy said.

Mike massaged the bridge of his nose before trying again.

"Okay, I'm the closest thing to family you've got," he said. "I know we didn't plan for that—in fact, we tried our best to avoid it, but there's no going back now. And that means that I can't let you go crawling around in the ductwork."

"So, don't let me," Davy said. "I'll still go, anyway. You can ground me after I free you all. And I _will_ get you out of here."

"Davy—!"

The English boy leapfrogged into the open duct, prompting Mike to grab him by the boots and try to pull him out. Micky and Peter moved forward to help him, but Davy slipped out of his boots and kept crawling down the ductwork.

"Davy! Man, you'd better get back here, or you're in big trouble!" Mike called angrily after him.

But Davy had gone selectively deaf, whistling as he worked his way further down the duct. Mike gritted his teeth and let out a frustrated growl.

"You must really care about him a lot," Peter said, softly.

Mike looked surprised, but then he nodded. Peter could understand why Mike was so frustrated, he had felt the same way about Micky from time to time.

"You know, if it wasn't for the obviously different accents, you probably could pass as brothers," Micky said. He, like always, didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Micky took a foolhardy approach to just about everything in life, he truly didn't see why crawling through the ductwork could be dangerous.

"Pete and I have been asked if we're cousins before," he continued. "I guess the hair was different enough that they didn't have to guess that we were bro—"

He was cut off as, from within the ductwork, came a horrible creaking and groaning of metal, followed by a cry of alarm from Davy, which was then cut off and followed by a thundering crash.

Peter's heart practically stopped beating as no more sound came from the vent.

"Davy!" Mike cried. "DAVY!"

Micky and Peter watched on, horrified, as there was no reply. Mike made a fruitless attempt to try to fit through the duct, but couldn't get more than his head into the space. Then he stood up and crossed to the door. He began to pound on it, trying again to break out.

"Why didn't you _listen_ to me?" he hissed, but there was no mistaking the horror and unbridled worry in his voice.

Peter bit his lip as Mike continued trying to get the unrelenting door to budge. Finally, he stopped trying and sunk to the ground, the ultimate picture of hopelessness and grief.

"I'm so sorry…" Micky said, blinking back tears. "I shouldn't have come up with that dumb idea; I didn't think that… this would happen…"

"Maybe he's okay," Peter said, trying to hang onto some thread of hope. "Maybe he just ended up somewhere out of earshot…"

But Mike either ignored them or didn't hear them, he sat against the door and said and did nothing. Peter turned away, he wasn't sure he could handle looking at the dejected form any longer.

He and Micky sat in silence, unsure what they could do to try and comfort their new friend, and even unsure as to whether they should. After what seemed like an eternity to Peter, they heard the deadbolt on the door unlock. Mike got to his feet, ready to tackle their captors if they were about to enter, but he halted in his tracks as Davy stood on the other side of the door—covered in dust and cobwebs, but grinning from ear to ear.

"Davy!" Micky and Peter exclaimed, grinning with relief to see him safe and alright.

"I told you I'd get you out, didn't I?" Davy said, as he nonchalantly picked up his boots and put them back on as though nothing had just happened. Did he have any idea what they had thought, what _Mike_ had thought? "Piece of cake, that was; there's a whole level of rooms down there—some of them run right under the stage. That's where I landed, actually—right on a pile of old stage curtains. I would be lucky enough to get a soft landing…"

He trailed off as Mike suddenly seized him by the shoulders.

"Davy," he said, in a dangerously quiet voice. "You have no idea how much I want to absolutely _throttle_ you right now. We are going to discuss this later, but for now, we're getting out of here."

Mike released him and stormed out of the room, leaving Davy standing there, stunned. Peter didn't blame Mike, if it had been Micky who had fallen, Peter would have felt the same way.

"Mike…?" Davy asked in bewilderment. Peter clapped Davy on the shoulder, he had to try and explain, he had to tell Davy what it had sounded like. For the other big brother of the four of them.

"He was really worried," he said. "And he had every right to be; from where we were standing, it sounded _really_ bad."

"Yeah, and seeing as though he warned you about going in there…" Micky joined in. "Well, you know…"

Davy blinked, stunned, and then picked up Mike's guitar, case and all, running after the Texan.

"Mike!" Davy called. "Mike wait!"

Peter watched as Davy ran to catch up to Mike, who was walking very quickly. Micky began to run after them, but Peter held him back. "Let's just... walk," he said. "You know, give them a chance to talk..."

Micky nodded and as they walked down the hallway, he chuckled. Peter looked at him. "What's so funny?" He asked. Micky shrugged. "I was just thinking, what would you have done if I had been in the ducts?"

Peter took a deep breath. "Well, I wouldn't have been as determined as Mike," he admitted. "I don't know if I would even be able to move. I think that if I thought you had fallen, it would have broken my brain."

"Yeah, what's left of it, right?" Micky joked, elbowing Peter's ribs. Peter chuckled. "Yeah," he said. "What's left of it."

They caught up to Mike and Davy, who were standing in the hallway, they seemed to have worked it out.

"Hey, you're both smiling again!" Peter said. "That's great! Now we can all get out of here!"

"Oh…" Micky said, wincing. "My drums are still in the wings. I know I should be more concerned with getting out of here, but if I don't have those drums, we've got no act! And if we've got no act, we won't be able to get any money for food or lodging or _anything_ once we do get out of here!"

"Well, maybe they'll give us a reward once we return this," Davy said, pulling the jade monkey figure from his pocket.

The other three stared at him.

"I thought I gave it to them after you gave it to me!" Peter said, scratching his head. "How did you get it back?"

"It was down in the storage room I fell into," Davy said. "They must've left it there while they called their boss."

"We need to get out of here-_now_!" Mike said suddenly.

"I thought we already established that?" Davy asked.

"No; they're going to head to that room after hearing you fall in there—and then they'll see the missing jade and the broken ductwork and figure out that we must've gotten out—if they haven't already! They're probably on our way up here!"

"Then let's grab my drums and split!" Micky suggested.

Mike nodded and the four hightailed it to the stage, where Micky gathered his drums onto the wheeled cart he had brought to store them on.

"Ah, there you are!" a voice said.

The boys jumped, but calmed down as they realized that the one talking to them was the talent show judge.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked, seeing them pack up.

"Uh, yeah, we're leaving. Extenuating circumstances," Mike said, tipping his hat. "Thank you for the lovely time."

"You can't leave!" the judge said. "You're both scheduled to open the show in less than ten minutes!"

"What?" Peter asked. "You mean we made it past the preliminaries?"

"Never mind _that_; you mean it's 8:00?" Mike asked.

"That's right; where've you boys been? You—Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer—you're opening. And Lone Star and Union Jack, you're right after them," the judge said.

"Look, that's great and all, but we're really going to have to withdraw," Mike said. "So thank you and good evening!"

"You can't withdraw!" the judge exclaimed. "Boys, I have our show's sponsor—the owner of the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh Club—in the audience. I was absolutely raving to him about your two acts; he's expecting to see you. And if he picks a favorite, that lucky duo might end up with a summer-long gig at his club."

Four heads turned to the judge's direction.

"You must be joking!" Davy exclaimed. "Solid source of money for the entire summer? As in, our rent payment?"

"As in, our food and lodging money?" Micky added.

"Fellas!" Mike said, sharply.

"Mike's right," Peter said. "Money won't mean anything if we're… well… not here to spend it."

Mike nodded and moved to lead them off, giving his apologies.

"We're really sorry for running off like this, but we've got circumstances beyond our control… Sweet mother of mercy…"

Mike now pulled an about-face, dragging the others back.

"Actually, we _can_ play," he announced.

"What?" Davy, Micky, and Peter asked, in unison.

"Excellent!" the judge said.

"On one condition," Mike added. "We're not playing as two separate acts; we want both of our acts on stage together."

"_What_?" Davy, Micky, and Peter repeated, with more intensity. Peter stopped trying to understand. This made absolutely no sense.

Mike gritted his teeth and jerked his head in the direction of backstage. The other three took a look and there, angrily snooping around backstage, were the three thugs, obviously looking for them. _Now_ it made sense to Peter.

"Both acts together?" the judge repeated.

"Yeah," Mike went on. "It's the best way to be able to compare us—side by side, rather than one after the other. It's a whole lot fairer that way, too—no worrying about first impressions or lasting impressions…"

Peter blinked. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought Mike had planned this. He was very convincing.

"Well, if that's what you want, have at it," the judge said. "You're on in five."

"And after that, we're splitting," Mike added. "And when I say we're going to run, I mean we're going to run."

"Fine. But I'll need your addresses and phone numbers so that we—and the manager of the club—will have a way to contact you as to the results of the contest."

"Mike and I are at 1334 North Beechwood Drive, Malibu," Davy rattled off, also giving their phone number, as Micky and Peter exchanged glances. As of this morning, they had no address or phone number.

"Got it," the judge said. He looked to Micky and Peter. "And you two?"

"…Can we get back to you on that?" Micky asked.

The judge gave a shrug and left the stage, and Mike motioned for the others to follow him onstage.

Micky set up his drums, casting a nervous glance offstage; any second now, those three thugs could make it to the wings and see them onstage. And if that happened before the curtain rose and they were in view of people… well, there was no telling what their fate would be.

To the relief of all four of them, the curtain did open, and as the emcee announced that the two favorites to win would be playing together, Mike turned to the others.

"Y'all ready?"

Three fervent "No"s replied him.

"Well, neither am I. So play like our lives depend on it," the Texan said, casting a nervous glance into the wings. "Because they do."

Micky gulped, and as Mike started to lead with a riff on his guitar, the brunet randomly played on his drums with a beat that he hoped fit. Peter joined in with the bassline, and Davy kept time with his tambourine, every so often casting a nervous glance at the jade in his pocket.

Mike gave a sigh and then started to sing something about a circle sky and extraordinary scenes. Once again, Peter found himself amazed at how easily Mike seemed able to come up with stuff. As he sang, Peter tried to focus on watching Mike's fingers and anticipating which notes he would play next. It seemed to go alright.

About halfway through, the three thugs did make it to one of the wings and saw them there onstage, but knew very well that they could do nothing in front of all of those witnesses. Peter breathed a small sigh of relief, they were alright as long as they played.

But the song couldn't last forever, and soon enough, Mike drew the song to a close. Somehow, they managed to stop playing at the same time rather than as an unorganized mess. Mike threw a thanks to the audience as Micky hurriedly stacked his drums on their little carrying cart.

"What now?" Davy asked. Peter looked back stage, the thugs were waiting for them. Knife Man had one side of the stage covered, and the other two had switched their positions to the other wing in order to prevent their escape.

"Tactical retreat!" Mike announced.

He grabbed his guitar case and leaped from the front of stage to the choir bleachers below them. Davy and Peter followed suit, with Micky taking the front stage steps so as to get his drums down without damaging them.

Everyone stared at them as they dashed through the aisles—some of them clapped and cheered, thinking it was part of their act. But the boys didn't stop until they were out into the evening air.

"We made it!" Micky exclaimed.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Mike informed him. "We need to deliver that jade to the police, and it's a cinch that our friends over there will be following us."

"But we'll never be able to outrun them!" Peter exclaimed. If they didn't have their instruments with them, that'd be one thing, but there was no way he was leaving his bass, and Micky would never leave his drums. "We don't even have a set of wheels!"

"But _we_ do!" Davy said, indicating Mike's GTO.

"Oh, Man…" Micky breathed, staring at the car with wide eyes. "That is one groovy ride! Have you thought about getting it customized?"

"Hasn't really crossed my mind," Mike said, unlocking the trunk.

"It's one of Micky's life goals to customize a car," Peter explained. Micky had told him as much at a car show that had gone through Ventura the summer before. "He loves mechanical and technological things…"

"Yeah, unfortunately, I've never had a car to customize," the drummer said, with a resigned shrug.

"Well, if I ever decide that this thing needs anything added to it, you'll be the first to know," Mike promised, as he helped store all of the instruments in the trunk.

Davy suddenly let out a yelp.

"Don't look now, but they've found us!"

The front door of the theatre opened, revealing Knife Man and his two flunkies. Mike and Davy made a break for the front seats while Peter and Micky scrambled over the back of the car and into the back seats.

Knife Man made a grab for Micky as he ran towards the car, but Mike pulled out of the parking space and sped off, leaving him grabbing empty air.

"Uh-oh…" Peter said, turning around to see the thugs getting into a second car. "They've got wheels, too."

Mike responded by speeding up; as Peter turned back towards the front, something hit him in the face. He grabbed it with his hand, it was Mike's cowboy hat.

"Where exactly are we going?" Micky called.

"I'm hoping to get the attention of a traffic cop!" Mike responded.

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Davy said, flatly, as he was thrown against the car door when Mike made a sharp turn.

"Bite your tongue; at least I wasn't the one who wrecked the ductwork!"

"They're catching up! They're catching up!" Micky yelped frantically. He blinked in surprise as the crooks' car now pulled alongside them. "…They're passing us?"

"No…" Mike said, going pale. "They're trying to run us off the road!"

He slammed the brakes of the GTO just as Knife Man's car tried to sideswipe them; they had put a lot of force into their attempted swipe, which had missed the GTO by an inch; the momentum carried Knife Man's car across the lane, where it skidded off the road and got stuck in a muddy ditch.

"HA!" Micky exclaimed, all former feelings of fear gone now that the immediate danger was over. He stood up to glare at the thugs, who were unhurt, but well and truly stuck. "Now that's karma if I've ever seen it! Take that!"

"Micky, sit down!" Peter pleaded, as Mike sped the GTO up again; Micky obliged, and Mike didn't slow the car down until they were a safe distance away.

Mike eventually found a police station—it shone like a beacon after everything the boys had been through in the last several hours. Davy finally was able to get the jade monkey off of his hands, and after a few more formalities involving reports and statements as to what had happened, along with a description of the thugs and their car, they were finally allowed to leave.

It was nearly midnight by the time the four musicians headed out into the Los Angeles night air.

"Man, what a day…" Mike yawned.

"And night," Davy added.

"Yeah, that's right; it's past your bedtime."

"Oh, ha ha…" the English boy laughed, sardonically.

Peter and Micky both grinned, amused.

"You two are really lucky to have each other," Peter said with a small smile. "I know I've felt that way about Micky and me, too."

"Yeah, if you've gotta be broke and hungry, having someone to share it with makes it a whole less unbearable," Micky agreed, as he moved to open the GTO's trunk.

"What are you doing?" Davy asked.

"Getting my drums and Pete's guitar. Now that this is all over, we can go on to wherever it was we were going."

"…Where's that, Mick?" Peter asked, tired after all the excitement. "I didn't think we had plans to go anywhere…"

"Wherever the road takes us, Pete. Wherever the road takes us."

"Well, wait a minute!" Mike said, placing a hand on Micky's shoulder. "It's not over yet—not until we're sure those three who took the monkey statue are behind bars. What happens if you run into them?"

Micky looked to Peter, who gave a helpless shrug. He had no idea. "Keep running, I guess," he offered.

"Well, that won't do…" Mike said. Davy looked at him.

"Mike, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" The British boy asked.

"I think I am, Tiny," Mike replied, and he turned back to Micky and Peter. "Hey, uh… You know, we've got room at our place. It was pre-furnished, and had two sets of beds in each of the bedrooms; we've been using those extra beds for storage space, but we could easily make room for you."

"We couldn't impose…!" Peter exclaimed.

"Look, you can't stay out here with those blokes running around, and you can't afford to stay anywhere else," Davy pointed out.

"Yeah, but we have no way to pay you, either!" Micky said.

"Well, it's not like the rent is going to go up because we have guests," Mike pointed out. "You want a written invitation or something?"

Micky and Peter exchanged glances again.

"Well, okay," Peter said, at last, feeling a strange sense of deja vu come over him. "But just for tonight."

And so it came to pass that Micky and Peter arrived at 1334 North Beechwood drive, fully intending to leave the next morning. But they ended up never leaving; the next morning, as they were halfway through a breakfast of pizza that Davy had managed to salvage from the fridge, the phone rang. Mike answered with, drawling a "Hello" in between bites.

The three others watched Mike as he stopped eating and listened to the speaker on the other side. "I think we're all in luck," he said after awhile, glancing back at them.

"Gentlemen, we've collectively won the $250 prize, and, furthermore, we are all hired for the summer at the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh—providing that we agree to play as a quartet rather than two separate duos."

He held the phone receiver out.

"We'll do it!" they all chorused, in unison.

That was more than satisfactory for the club owner; they would start the coming weekend, so as to provide them time to adapt their different setlists to their new arrangements.

"How about that…" Davy mused, after they had said their thanks and goodbyes to the club owner. "We all won the money, and we all got the gig." He looked to Micky and Peter. "Since we've got a lot of practicing to do, you may as well stay here for some more time."

"Yeah, we may as well…" Micky said. "But do you think we can really make this work—I mean _really_ make this work?"

"Well, we made it work last night," Mike pointed out. "But we're going to have to come up with a name to refer to our combined act—referring to ourselves as 'The Connecticut Yankee, the California Dreamer, Lone Star, and Union Jack' is going to get old really fast…"

They pondered over this for a moment, and then Peter reached into the pocket of Mike's jacket from his costume that he had draped over one of the chairs the previous night, pulling out the newspaper article about the jade monkey.

"Well…" the blond said, after glancing at the picture of the monkey in the article. "Seeing as though it was this monkey that inadvertently brought us together onstage last night, I say we name our act after it! …But it shouldn't be _too_ obvious, I think; we should probably tweak it just a little bit so that only we know the real significance behind it, of course…"

The other three exchanged glances with each other and then with Peter, nodding in agreement.

The decision was unanimous.

* * *

"So..." Micky said, lounging on the couch and looking at Peter. Peter glanced up from his toast blankly.

"Yeah, Mickey?" He said. Micky fidgeted for a moment before standing up and beginning to pace back and forth.

"Well," he said. "You see... the thing is... Fall's here."

"Yeah?" Peter said. "I like Fall. It's pretty this time of year."

"That's not the point," Micky said. "Summer's over. The gig is over. We don't... we don't have to stay here anymore."

Peter blinked. "Oh..." he said. "Oh yeah... That's... good, I guess..."

They sat in silence for a few more moments, before Micky spoke up again. "So, is this it, then?" he said. "Should we leave?"

Peter opened his mouth, but then shut it again. The original deal had been "just for the night," later it turned into "just for the summer," now that summer was over...

They'd been saving money all season, both of them with the excuse of "just in case," neither of them wanting to think about what would happen when the gig was over. They'd gotten comfortable.

"Well... we have enough money to afford a small apartment," Peter said thoughtfully. "We could manage for the winter, keep looking for work as a two man act..."

"But I don't want to be a two man act anymore," Micky exclaimed. "I want to be a Monkee!"

Peter felt the corner of his mouth turn up involuntarily. "Well, it's our natural inheritance!" He said. Micky ignored the joke.

"Let's ask Mike and Davy if we can stay," he said. "Let's ask if they want to keep being Monkees too."

Peter smiled. "Okay," he said. "let's do that."

And the rest, as they say, was history. Davy and Mike agreed immediately to Micky and Peter becoming permanent residents of the little beachhouse, and they all decided to stay together as the Monkees.

It was a testament to the power of serendipity—a chance meeting had led to the discovery of an amazing shared talent. Micky eventually got his wish of being able to customize a car; Mike eventually let him go at it with his GTO, which, by the end of Micky's project, had been named the Monkeemobile. And though Peter and Micky remained the best of friends due to having known each other the longest, as did Davy and Mike, there was no denying that all four of them shared a strong kinship with each other—and that, perhaps, had been the most valuable thing they had ended up finding that fateful day at the Great Oak Theatre.


	16. The Fourth-Place Blues

_Author's notes: This story is based off of Season 1 Episode 13, One Man Shy (Peter and the Debutante)_

* * *

Peter was used to being second best. It was like second nature to him. All his life, he'd been outshone by pretty much anybody who'd tried, and some people who hadn't. Going to school as a kid, he wasn't hated or shunned. No, people had to notice you in order to hate you. While other kids got picked first for teams or picked last for teams, he was the kid who got picked from the last six or seven kids, not quite last, but a leftover all the same.

When he was a teenager and he looked for a job, he'd gone for interview after interview, and while no employer seemed to dislike him, someone else always got the job. In fact, the only job he'd gotten in Connecticut had been because no one else had applied.

He'd had a few friends in Connecticut, he certainly wasn't completely friendless. But his friends, although nice to him, always had more friends than just him, and spent time with their other friends just as much as with Peter, going to parties or to dances. And while they usually invited him to tag along, he didn't like to go very often. Whenever he was at a party, he usually ended up sitting in a chair in the back of the room silently watching everyone else have fun.

Then when he was seventeen, he'd decided to go "find himself," something he'd heard a stranger say once in passing. The man had been homeless, a drifter. That much was obvious by his dirty clothes and the hat full of pennies he'd been holding out. But he'd looked so happy that Peter had had to stop and talk to him. After a short conversation, Peter had made up his mind.

His mother tried to talk him out of it, but when he told her his mind was made, she'd smiled, given him a hug and a few dollars she'd saved up, and wished him luck. Then he'd grabbed his bass and gone.

A year later had found him living in the hotel as Micky's roommate, and while he never would have traded his friendship with Micky for anything, it was obvious to him that his new best friend was, like so many others, better than him. He didn't mind. He wasn't jealous. In fact, he hadn't really thought about it. He'd sort of taken it for granted that no matter where he went, someone would always be there to outshine him.

After that, he and Micky had met Mike and Davy, and now Peter found himself not second best, but fourth best. Again, he didn't mind. Who cared about being fourth best if the three people better than you liked you just the way you were, and never rubbed it in your face that you weren't as good as they were?

So, Peter was happy for a time, content with his lot in life. Being humble didn't mean you thought you were worthless, true humility came from knowing exactly who you were and what you were meant to be. Peter knew he wasn't worthless. But he knew he wasn't best, and that knowledge made him content with his life of living in the shadows.

But then something like this would happen, and Peter would again question his place in life. And when Peter questioned himself, he always came up short.

It was all his fault anyway, for falling in love with the rich young lady who'd hired the band to play at her party. He should have known not to get mixed up in the world of etiquette and finance and "high breeding." He just couldn't help himself. She was so pretty, and so nice, and she stood up for the group when Ronnie, her snobbish gentleman friend (applying the term loosely) insulted their music.

He'd planned to leave well enough alone anyway, and not even bother dreaming, but then his emotions overcrowded his better sense and he'd found himself taking her portrait home with him and staring at her still face for hours.

The others were bound to notice sometime.

So they'd all tried to help, in a way that only the Monkees knew how. First they'd convinced Peter to pantomime a balcony scene Cyrano de Bergerac style, which resulted in a nearby gardener socking him in the jaw. Then they'd gone on the offensive and tried to make Ronnie look bad in front of the girl, and then they'd each played a game of Ronnie's sports, and lost spectacularly.

Funnily enough, Peter had belonged to the archery club at his high school, had played badminton with his mother sometimes when she was bored, and while he had never shot skeet before, he'd had a friend who was into hunting, and had taken Peter to the targeting range a few times. He'd said Peter was a natural, a great shot.

But nobody ever stopped to ask Peter if he knew how to play badminton, shoot a rifle, or string an arrow. They'd assumed he couldn't and tried to help. In fact, the only person who'd asked if he could measure up was Ronnie, who had also assumed he couldn't and had been trying to outshine him.

As if he'd needed much trying. Peter could make a fool of himself well enough on his own, thank you very much. He didn't need some rich snobby guy to do it for him.

And even after all that, Valerie had still asked Peter to the party. Peter, not Ronnie.

At first, Peter had thought it must be some kind of trick, Ronnie trying to trick him or something. But it had been real, and now Peter was there, standing by helplessly while the other three Monkees, always trying to help, tangled him up in cloth and tape measures, going on about stocks and yachts and suits, while Valerie stood by, impressed.

That was the real sting. She'd been nice to him as Peter. She was impressed with "Mr. Tork."

_Can't you see that this isn't real!?_ He wanted so desperately to say._ That this isn't me, that this could never be me?_

But of course he couldn't say anything. In fact, it was almost a relief when Ronnie showed up and blew their cover. Even if this was the end, even if Valerie hated him for lying, at least now she would hate the real him.

Davy, Mike and Micky headed sheepishly toward the stage, but Ronnie wasn't done with Peter yet.

"It's true, isn't it, Tork?" He said, glancing at Peter before pulling the bolt of cloth over his head and throwing it down. Peter just stood.

"You're frauds. Fraudser than fruads!"

Peter took a deep breath. This was it. "It's true," he said sorrowfully. "It's true."

He walked over to Valerie and looked her in the eye.

"They're just my friends," he said. "But they knew how much you meant to me, and they wanted to make me out as something special."

Valerie looked at him, her lovely violet eyes wide open, showing complete and utter honesty as she said something Peter never would have expected.

"But you _are_ something special, Peter."

Peter paused, confused. "Me?" he asked.

Valerie nodded. "You didn't have to do all of this," she said, indicating the other three Monkees, who were in front of the stage, trying to get out of their ridiculous costumes. "I think you're a fine enough person just being yourself."

Peter couldn't help it, he smiled. A big goofy smile that reached from ear to ear. She liked him for who he really was! She, a fashionable and well-bred lady, liking average ol' fourth-best Peter. It was unbelievable, and yet it was true!

And she smiled back.

Mike started off the music with You May Just Be the One, and Peter, for once in his life, did something right.

Reaching out for her hand, he said. "The first dance is mine."

Of course, Ronnie had other plans, but Peter had his confidence back, and it wasn't very hard to see Ronnie for what _he_ really was, a pathetic excuse for a man, full of inbred arrogance and pride. Needless to say, Valerie chose Peter.

And now everything was back to how it should be, with Peter knowing exactly who he was and what he was meant to be. He didn't need to be better than anyone else, he didn't need to be the perfect gentlemen. Just look at Ronnie, perfect got you nowhere.

He had to be himself. He had to understand himself, and live in true humility. Only then would he be what he was going to be, only then would he be truly free.


	17. Curtain Call

_Based on Season 1 Episode 16, Son of a Gypsy, one of my personal favorites and a very fun one to write._

* * *

All in all, it wasn't the best night of Micky's life. It had started out with them getting a gig for some crazy rich lady's party, but that was about normal. Then they had been invited by a group of gypsies to come visit their camp, which still wasn't that bad. When they had gotten to the camp, the gypsies had kidnapped them and threatened to torture them unless they agreed to steal a Maltese Vulture from the crazy rich lady, but even that wasn't what made the night so horrible.

What made it horrible was that Maria, the evil mother and the leader of the gypsy group, had decided that in order to insure the Monkees cooperated, she needed a hostage (Which was totally true, by the way, but even so), and she had chosen Peter.

If the Monkees (Minus Peter) Didn't deliver the Vulture by midnight, the gypsies would kill him.

Needless to say, Micky didn't enjoy the party.

He'd tried to send someone for the police, just like he'd seen in dozen of movies, but just his luck he'd picked the one guy who didn't speak English.

He still wasn't sure what had happened to Davy and Mike's plan for sending for help, but it hadn't got them any results.

So they were resigned to stealing the vulture. Davy had the best plan out of the three of them, he would try to sneak in and steal it while Mike and Micky distracted the guards.

It took awhile, but with the guards distracted and Davy safely in the room, all Mike and Micky could do was wait.

"Mike?" Micky asked as the two sat in the hallway. Davy had only been gone for a short while, but every second felt like an eternity to Micky.

"Yeah?" Mike asked. Micky fidgeted with his hands. He felt like he couldn't sit still for a second.

"Do you think we'll make it in time?" He asked. Mike took a sidelong glance at him. "Sure we will," he said. "Davy knows what he's doing, I think. We'll get that vulture to the gypsies long before we have to worry about Peter."

"But what if we don't make it in time?" Micky asked. "Do you think... do you think they'll actually..."

He couldn't even say it. He swallowed nervously. What if they were too late? What if the gypsies actually went through with it? What if he never saw Peter alive again? He couldn't even remember the last thing he'd said to Peter.

"Now, look here," Mike said suddenly, turning to face Micky and frowning a little. "Nothing's gonna happen to Peter. Not tonight, and not ever. I won't ever let anything happen to any of you, you hear me? Davy's gonna get into that safe, we're gonna give the vulture to the gypsies, and we're all gonna go home, forget this ever happened, and we'll never watch The Inspector General again."

"But-" Micky started, but Mike held up his hand. "Ah," he said. "Peter's gonna be fine, I promise."

He didn't sound convinced, but before Micky could say anything, the crazy lady and a bustling friend rushed by, the lady talking about showing her friend the Vulture.

"Quick, we need to come up with some kind of distraction, so we can get in there and help Davy!" Mike said.

Micky put on his thinking face. Distractions and disguises were his forte. He could come up with something easily.

And so they came up with a plan, rushed into the room, threw the Vulture out the window just in time, and then the guards escorted them to the living room, where the gypsies had "caught" Peter trying to steal the vulture.

Personally, Micky was just happy to see his blonde friend alive, but he was more than happy to get into the fight that broke out after Maria made a snatch for the Vulture.

Soon the police had captured the gypsies, everybody's valuables were returned, the Vulture was safe in the hands of the crazy lady's guards, and Maria announced that she and the boys would turn from their life of crime so they could get into show business. Apparently the Monkees just had that affect on criminals.

And so, with a final goodbye from Maria and a kiss on the head from Marco, the gypsies were taken away.

"Well now, I'm glad to see they're goin' straight," Mike said.

Davy nodded. "You know," he said. "I think we were a good influence on 'em."

"Yeah, well, let's not hang around all night, let's go." Micky said.

Mike raised his wrist to look at his watch. "Yeah, it's nearly-"

He let out a huge gasp as it was revealed that his watch was no longer on his wrist.

"Hey!" He yelled, as Micky stared. "She took your watch!" He said. "Yup, it's gone!" Mike agreed.

"Hey, mine's gone too!" Davy exclaimed.

"I don't wear a watch," Micky said, but he felt his pockets, and sure enough... "My wallet!" He yelled.

"Peter, what did she take from you?" Mike asked, turning around. Peter wasn't there.

"Peter?" He asked. Micky and Davy turned to where Peter had been standing a moment before.

"Peter?" The both called as Mike waved his arms in the empty air where Peter had stood. That didn't make any sense, he'd been standing right there as Maria gave them all a hug and stolen something of theirs...

No. Uh-uh. Not possible. There was no way that what they were thinking might've happened could have ever happened.

"Peter?" They all asked again.

"You don't think..." Micky started.

"Uh..." Was all Davy could manage to say.

"I really don't see why she'd've stolen..." Mike stammered.

"Peter?" Micky tried again.

"Peter! Davy called quietly, not really expecting an answer.

It finally seemed to really sink in and frantically, the three of them ran for the door, shouting out for Maria. She had managed to steal Peter.

How on earth she accomplished it, they never truly found out. But they all ended up safe and sound back at the pad, surprisingly not much shaken up about the whole affair. After all, they were the Monkees. This sort of thing happened just about every week.

But Micky always remembered what Mike had said to him in the hallway, about never letting anything happen to any of them. It made him feel happy and safe, knowing that whatever happened, Mike would be there to fix it.

He just hoped it wouldn't happen to Peter again. He hated having to worry.


	18. Chapter 1: Slate Wiped Clean

_Author's note: This chapter is based off of Season 1 Episode 17, The Case of the Missing Monkee, another one of my favorites._

* * *

Having amnesia was definitely the strangest thing he'd ever experienced, not that he really remembered any experiences to compare it with. It was so weird, like that feeling you get when you're certain you've forgotten something important, but can't remember it for the life of you. Except, this wasn't just some detail or item he'd forgotten. It was everything.

He had no idea about anything, who he was, what he was like, where he'd been before. No, everything he knew was living in the hospital for about half an hour.

The doctor who had talked to him told him that he was an amnesia patient and had lived here for two months, and he must have suffered a relapse and forgotten everything. He said not to worry about the headaches and the disorientation, he would be back to his old self in no time. He suggested going to the Physical Therapy room, try to familiarize himself with everything. If he recognized something, his memory could return quicker.

He believed him, I mean, what reason did he have to not trust the doctor? So he did what he was told and, after asking directions from several nurses, he found his way to the physical therapy room and pushed past three other patients who were standing in the door.

"PETER!" They all yelled, startling him. He turned around and looked at them, but nothing came to his mind. He frowned. "I've never seen you before in my life."

They looked confused, but not as confused as Peter was. Had he seen them before? He didn't remember... but, then again, that was what amnesia did. Maybe he'd talked to them over the past few months, gotten to know them a bit before the relapse. They kept talking, but he tuned them out and sat down. He felt funny. Like he was lost or something.

Suddenly, he realized that one of the other patients was grabbing his robe.

"Get your hands off me," he said. "Don't you know who I am?" A thought struck him. The doctor had told him he was an amnesia patient, but he hadn't told him anything else. "Wait a minute," he said. "Who am I?" He felt the side of his face and then bit his fingernails as the other patients began talking to themselves again. He frowned, trying to remember something, anything. It was all just a big blank. He couldn't remember a thing.

The patient who'd been trying to talk to him earlier walked back over to him.

"Uh, Peter, we're gonna try to scare you, so don't be scared."

He nodded, and smiled at the patient. "Okay, go ahead," he said. He supposed they could try whatever they wanted, they were just trying to help. Although, really, that didn't make much sense. How were they supposed to scare him if he was expecting it?

The three patients gathered around him and stood silently for a second, and then they all yelled "BOO!" right in his ear.

He shook his head, the headache had flared up again, but no memories had returned. "Nope," he said. "That don't make it. You gotta do it when I'm not ready."

The three patients walked away a short distance and began talking again. Peter tuned them out. This whole "remembering" thing was really tiring. He supposed when they were done here, he should go back to his room and take a nap. If he could find his room, that is. He didn't want to ask the nurses for help again, they all had looked at him very strange when he'd been asking about the physical therapy room. Maybe the three patients who seemed to know him could- Oh wait, they were talking to him again.

"Oh, hey, Peter, how's it goin'," said the patient in the green hat. "Long time no see!"

"Hey, Pete," Chimed in the patient who'd warned him earlier, patting him on the shoulder as he talked. "So we were having fun the other day..."

"Yeah, it's best we got off," started the short patient.

"BOO!" They all yelled again. He jumped a little, this time, he wasn't expecting it.

"What're you trying to do, give me a heart attack?" He asked, the patients were looking at him with concern, the one with the hat acting like he was looking for something.

"Well, we're sorry, Peter," the short one said. "We were just trying to help you, you know?"

Now Peter felt bad for yelling, of course they were just trying to help him, and to be fair, they had warned him that they were going to try and scare him.

"It's all right, Micky," he said.

He froze. Wait. What? The headache was back, but there was something else there, too. Micky. Who was Micky? The short one wasn't Micky. He put his hand up to his head. Everything was coming back. Meatloaf, and California, and the lipstick under the bed. Saltwater taffy, singing onstage, his bass guitar, a hard black ottoman. A guitar string, red maracas, a spiral staircase, the Monkeemobile...

"Wait, wait," he said, standing up. "My memory, Ahh..."

The Monkees! Mike! Davy! Micky! Performing together at gigs! Gigs, where he'd met professor Shnitzler, and then he was hit on the head, and then he'd woken up here, and the evil guy with the goatee erased his memory. But before that, what had he said? Something about professor Shnitzler... Then it hit him.

"We don't have any time, we don't have any time," he said frantically, turning to Mike. Good ol' Mike, in his green hat. Peter wanted to hug him. But there were more important things to deal with right now. "We gotta get to the pr- they're gonna smuggle the professor out of the country tonight!"

They all rushed to the professor's room (after stopping for directions) and saw that he was still there, unconscious on the bed.

Mike turned to Peter. "How'd the doctor say he was gonna get him out of the country anyway?" He asked. Peter paused. A big blank. Most of his memory had returned, but everything was a little hazy and he still had a few holes.

"I forget," he said, scratching his head. The memory was there, he just couldn't quite remember it.

"He's having a relapse," Mike said to Davy and Micky.

Well, to be fair, the doctor had said it usually took three days to get back to normal. Peter was trying to cram it all in within half an hour. He just hoped he wouldn't be like this until early spring. He'd assumed the evil doctor was just trying to insult him, but there was the possibility he was being honest, and Peter would have a slight memory problem for at least that long. Boy, he hoped that wasn't the case.

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Mike told Peter to play dumb and then the three other Monkees hid. Peter was momentarily confused, but then remembered what was going on.

"Why do I always have to play dumb?" He complained out loud. "Why can't I play smart for a change?"

The door opened and a nurse came in. Peter let out a sigh of relief, he'd been expecting the evil Doctor, and he wasn't sure what the man would do to him if he found Peter sitting in the professor's room when he wasn't even supposed to remember that there _was_ a professor.

The nurse placed an oxygen mask on professor Shnitzler and straightened the blankets, and then she noticed Peter. "Hello there," She said, smiling brightly. Peter smiled back. Well, they told him to play dumb.

"Are they coming to take him away now?" He asked her. She smiled and pointed at him."Oh, what a smart question," she said. Peter smiled as she walked over to him. "Yes," she said. "The Doctor will be here in..." she checked her watch. "A few moments." She smiled again, and then pulled something out of her pocket. "Here," she said, shaking something out of a tin box. "Have a cough drop." He opened his mouth and she dropped the cough drop in. "Aren't they wonderful?" She asked. He nodded, and then it hit.

Like a rocket crashing in his mouth. He jumped up, he couldn't sit still now.

The nurse left the room with a wave. "Bye-bye," she said. As soon as the door closed, Peter looked over the top of the curtained booth the others were hiding behind.

"Okay guys, she's gone," he said. They all rushed out and ran to the professors side while Peter shook his hands, trying to expel some of this energy he was feeling.

Micky was saying something about an ambulance, and then Mike said something about an oxygen mask. Peter wasn't listening.

By the time he was back down to earth, it had been decided. Micky was going to ride the gurney pretending to be the professor, with the other three Monkees underneath, so that if all else failed, the professor would still be in the clinic instead of being smuggled out of the country.

They were wheeled to the operating room, where the evil Doctor was going to try a permanent brainwashing process. Peter wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded evil. And painful.

They all crept out of the room and grabbed the nearest disguise they could find. Then, dressed like doctors, they all re-entered the room and began arguing with the evil doctor over whose patient Micky was.

The evil Doctor had everything ready, and Peter had been right, whatever this permanent brainwashing process was, it was going to be very painful.

The evil doctor walked behind the table to turn on the oxygen, or the gas, whatever was in that tank.

"Okay," Mike said. "Here goes nothing." At that, Micky couldn't help but start to sit up. "Now, wait a minute," he whispered, but Mike shushed him and pushed him back down. Peter saw the evil doctor pause and turn to look at Micky, suspicious.

"You look very nervous, Doctor," Davy said, not having seen the Doctor. "Nervous?" Peter responded. "Don't be silly! Look at how slowly I'm twitching."

They had to get out of here, and fast, before the evil doctor discovered everything and captured them.

But Mike had it handled, like always, and he managed to get the evil doctor arguing again about whose patient it was. Soon, they were pulling at the gurney, spinning it and twisting it until poor Micky was dizzy. That was when the doctor realized who they were.

"It's those musicians!" He exclaimed. That was the cue to run. The chase went through the entire clinic, but finally, they managed to catch the evil doctor and they tied him to the exercise equipment to leave him for the police. Another day in the lives of the Monkees.

* * *

_About a month later:_

They were at the circus, the closed circus. Apparently, nobody came to the circus anymore, so the big top was closing down. They probably would have left by now, but Davy was trying to cheer up a girl, and so they were all hanging around.

Peter watched as the Strong Man struggled with his heavy weights. At least, they were supposed to be heavy. They didn't feel that heavy when the man handed them to Peter.

"I've got to get ready," he explained. "I have so many things to do. You know the Mozzarella Boys are coming."

Peter blinked. He'd heard that name before, he was sure of it. Weren't they supposed to be some great trapeze act, that walked the tightrope with no net, carrying a stack of glasses or something? "No," he said in disbelief. "Really, that- that's wonderful!" The Strong Man walked away. "That's marvelous," Davy also said, albeit not as enthusiastically, standing up as Mike walked over to them. Peter smiled. This news had to be shared.

"Mike," he said. "Mike, the circus is saved! The Mozzarella Brothers are coming!"

Mike looked at him for a second. "Yeah, but, it's, uh, the- the Mozzarella Brothers are _us._" He pointed at himself and Peter. Peter froze. "...Us?" He asked. Mike nodded. Peter was surprised. "U, S, us?" He said. How could he have forgotten something like that?

"Oh, Peter, you're amazing," Mike said, shaking his head and turning away. Peter felt his stomach drop. The circus wasn't saved after all. "Does that mean I have to carry the glasses?" He asked no one in particular. How could he have forgotten being the Mozzarella Brothers?

He chocked it up to the evil doctor's memory eraser. He still had a little bit of trouble remembering things from time to time, but he was confident he'd get better someday. After all, early spring would get here soon enough.


	19. Don't call me Baby Face, Baby Face!

_Author's notes: This story is based off Season 1 Episode 25, Alias Micky Dolenz._

* * *

Micky fidgeted nervously in his chair, glancing from Mike to the Chief to Baby Face Morales, who was sitting in the chair next to him, fidgeting nervously in his chair. Apparently, Micky wasn't the only one in the world who could impersonate almost anyone.

Everything had gone well enough until they'd gotten to the police station. The power went off, the lights went out, and Micky was shoved to the ground. When the lights came back on, Baby Face Morales was standing where he had been standing, looking around at the other criminals, pretending to be worried.

Now the chief had them both sitting side by side, while Mike stared at them, not wanting to make the call on who was who. He was pretty certain he would get it right, but... what if he didn't? He didn't want to be responsible for the escape of Baby Face, but even more so, he didn't want to be the one to send Micky to jail.

"Come on, Mike, don't you know me!?" Baby Face asked desperately. Somehow, he had learned all of their names. "It's me, Micky! Your buddy, your pal!"

"Don't listen to him, Mike!" Micky cried out. "He's lying, I'm the real Micky! It's me, I've known you for two years! We're in a band together!"

"Yeah, the Monkees," Baby Face added. "Come on, Mike, please, don't let them take me away! Don't let them lock me up, please Mike!"

Mike looked like he had a headache, and a big one at that. He turned to the chief. "Chief," he said. "I- I just can't... I mean, I've got no way of knowing... They're practically identical!"

Micky put his face in his hands. It was hopeless. "Identical!?" Baby Face said. "Ha! Look at that guy, he looks nothing like me!"

"Oh, don't you call me a mean dirty rat face again!" Micky said. "I'm not Baby Face! I'm Micky, Micky Dolenz! Mike, Pleeease!" He turned and looked back up at Mike. "You have to believe me! Would I lie to you?"

"You would if you were Baby Face," Mike deadpanned. Baby Face sent a smug glance to Micky. "He's got you there, Baby Face," he said.

"I'm not Baby Face!" Micky insisted. "Don't call me Baby Face, Baby Face!"

"Well, _I'm_ not Baby Face!" Baby Face said. "I'm Micky Dolenz! I'm a Monkee and I play the drums and I don't wanna go to jail! Oh, I never should have taken this job!"

"Now, that's what I told you," Mike said. Micky looked at him in horror. "Mike!" He exclaimed desperately. "You can't believe that he's Micky! I mean, me! _I'm_ me! You have to believe me!"

"But you just said 'Micky' before you said 'Me'!" Baby Face pointed out with triumph. "That just show's you're not really me!"

"No it doesn't, it shows that you're confusing me by impersonating me!"

"Quiet down!" Mike said. Both Micky and Baby Face stopped talking and looked up at Mike worriedly. He bent down and looked hard into Baby Face's face, and then he looked hard into Micky's. He stood up and sighed, turning away and taking a few steps toward the center of the room. Taking his hat off, he ran his hand through his hair.

"I know what that means," Micky said, grasping at straws to prove that he was Micky. "Yeah, so do I," Baby Face said. "It means he's frustrated and he can't figure out which one of us is telling the truth."

Drat. Baby Face beat him to it.

"I've got it," Micky said. "Ask me a question, something that'll prove that I'm Micky!"

"Don't you remember, Baby Face, we already tried that to prove to Tony that I was you. Peter messed it up when you said I'd read it in the papers."

"No, _you_ said_ I'd_ read it in the papers!" Micky exclaimed. "Stop pretending to be me!"

"I'm not pretending, I really am Micky!" Baby Face said.

"So, what do you recommend we do?" The Chief said, looking at Mike. Mike rubbed his forehead. "I really don't know," he said. "Can't you do a fingerprint test or something? Everybody's fingerprints are different. Maybe that'll tell us."

"We could do that, yes," The chief said. "But we wouldn't get the results until tomorrow morning. We would have to hold them here overnight.

Both Micky and Baby Face groaned at that. "I don't wanna stay in jail overnight!" Baby Face said. "I just wanna go home, to the pad, and go to bed!"

Micky let out a strangled sob. Baby Face was so convincing, even _he_ almost believed in his story.

"I'm never going to get out of here!" He despaired.

Just then, the door opened and Peter walked in. "Hey, Mike," he said. "What's taking so long?"

"PETER!" Baby Face exclaimed. "Tell these people that I'm really Micky!"

"Peter, don't listen to him!" Micky said. "He's lying! I'm Micky, really, I am!"

"Oh..." Peter said, looking at the two identical people sitting on the chairs. "I see..."

"Can you figure this out?" Mike asked him. "Cause I sure can't tell 'em apart."

Peter cocked his head, then he leaned in close, just like Mike had done. He looked at Baby Face, and then he looked at Micky.

Standing up, he said "They look exactly the same to me."

Micky groaned, as did Baby Face. That was it. His last hope. Well, until the morning, that is. But still.

"Well, that's it, then," Mike said, throwing his hands in the air. "If you can't tell them apart, there's no way we'll ever sort this out without the fingerprints!"

"Hey, wait, don't give up," Peter said, glancing at the two of them. "I think I know a way to tell them apart."

"How?" Mike asked. Peter bent over again, studying their faces.

"Meatloaf," he said simply.

Micky chuckled. What was Peter planning on doing, bringing meatloaf down to the station to see which of them would eat it fastest? That wasn't going to work, especially as no meatloaf compared to Aunt Franny's meatloaf. After eating hers, Micky hadn't really liked any other meatloaf he'd had.

"It's him," Peter said, smiling and pointing at Micky. Micky was stunned. "How..." He said. "How did you know it was me, Pete?"

Peter grinned. "You laughed," he said. "Baby Face just looked confused."

Mike was also surprised. "Well, what do you know," he said. "Peter, you saved us a whole lot of trouble!"

"Yeah, thanks, Peter!" Micky said, smiling and standing up. He looked down at Baby Face, who was glaring at the three of them. "What does that even mean, 'Meatloaf'?" He asked sullenly, all traces of Micky's mannerisms and voice patterns gone.

Peter smiled. "Well," he said. "Meatloaf's his favorite. Let's just say, it's an inside thing."

"Yeah, sort of like a secret handshake," Micky said. "Or a password!"

"Well, now I know," Baby Face said. "You just wait until next time, Dolenz. I'll be back one day, and I'll know everything about you then."

"Oh, you won't know everything," Peter said with a smile. "Micky's full of surprises. I've known him for four years and I still don't know everything."

"No," Micky said. "But you know enough when it matters."

Peter smiled. "Thanks," he said. "If we ever run into my double, just make sure you can return the favor."

Micky laughed. "Can do," he said. "There's no worries there. I'd know you just about anywhere!"

Peter thought on that as the three of them headed out of the station and into the night air. "Well," he said with a smile. "I do have that kind of a face."


	20. The Future's Better Left Unseen

_Auther's note: This story is based off Season 1 Episode 26, Monkee Chow Mein. I didn't really add much to this story, I mostly focused on Micky's thoughts as the story progressed, although I did add one or two things to explain things, and to end on a funny note. Enjoy!_

* * *

All in all, Micky was just plain straight irritated. I mean, it had been bad enough that Peter had taken that fortune cookie with the fourth part of a top-secret formula that was wanted by both the CIA and the Chinese mob. It was bad enough that the Chinese mob had chased them from the restaurant and then the CIA had taken them at gunpoint to interrogate them about the formula's whereabouts. And it was bad enough that the Chinese mob had followed them to the pad so they could nab Peter and look for the formula.

What really ticked Micky off was that the Chinese mob had broken into their apartment and kidnapped him instead. Not that he wanted Peter to be kidnapped, in fact, he would do this all over again if it meant Peter stayed safe. But seriously, it was the middle of the night, he was tired, he had a bit of a stomachache, and now, to top it all off, he was tied to a chair, with some sort of bag over his head.

The Dragon Man came into the room, congratulating Toto on his accomplishment.

"Now, Toto!" He was saying. "Let us hope you have done your job right this time! Uh, take off hood, please..."

Suddenly, the bag was pulled off. Micky blinked and took a look at the Dragon Man. He didn't seem all that threatening. Maybe it was the fact that he was currently throwing a tantrum because Toto had kidnapped Micky instead of Peter.

"Rghhh!" He yelled. "You fool! Once again, you have brought me wrong man!"

"You fool," Micky repeated. "You have again brought him the wrong one. Bye."

But the goon behind him stopped him from standing up, and fastened him to the chair more securely. Micky sighed in annoyance. Some night this was turning out to be.

When he got out of this, he decided he was never going to eat a fortune cookie again. They caused way too much trouble.

* * *

It had been awhile now, and Micky was now even more irritated. What was taking the CIA so long? They were supposed to know what was going on here, why hadn't they come in yet? This was getting tedious. He looked over at the Dragon Man, who was now giving new instructions to Toto.

"And now, Toto," he said. "For your instructions. I want you to find the Monkee, get the cookie, bring the Monkee and the cookie to me. Repeat, please."

Well, he couldn't have that. If Toto found Peter and the cookie, they would release the Doomsday bug on an unsuspecting population or something. So Micky decided to stir things up a bit.

"I find the cookie, bring the Monkee," Toto was saying. "Oh, no no, no," Micky interrupted. "It's: You find the cookie, get the Monkee than cook the cookie."

"QUIET, PLEASE!" Dragon Man yelled. Well, that was rude.

Micky watched as the Dragon Man wrote the instructions down and had Toto read it, and then destroy the paper. Then he told Toto to recite what he had read. Toto thought for a moment, and then said "Uh, uh, cook a Monkee... and get cookie...?"

"No no no no," Micky supplied helpfully. "You monk the cookie, cook the Monkee, then find the cookie!"

"SHUT UP PLEASE!" Yelled the Dragon Man. Boy, he really was starting to lose it. Micky wondered if he was always this crabby, or if he was just tired of being up so early after he had stayed up all night just to kidnap the wrong Monkee.

"QUIET!" He yelled again, before turning to Toto. "I will repeat for you one more time," he said. "Listen carefully! You monk the cookie, fry the turkey, oh, wait ohh..." He began muttering something unintelligible, glaring at Micky as he muttered. Then he tried again. "You dry the turkey, baste the turkey- Baste the turkey!?"

"Nice try, Dragon Man," Micky said. "Do you wanna try it again?"

Dragon Man peered at the ripped up bits of paper with the instructions on them, looking up at Micky and growling every now and again.

Eventually, he figured out what the instructions were and sent Toto out after Peter.

* * *

Micky fidgeted in his seat, he hated sitting still for so long. This was a real drag. It had been a few hours since Toto had gone looking for Peter, and the Dragon Man was entertaining himself by playing Monopoly. Unfortunately, it wasn't very entertaining for Micky, and now Micky was bored out of his skull.

That was when the waiter goon opened the door, calling for the Dragon Man.

"Has Toto returned with the boy?" Dragon Man asked eagerly. "Better yet, Master, the boy has come to us! He is outside in the Restaurant!"

Well, if that wasn't just magnificent! After all he had been through to make sure they didn't get Peter, he just walked in, waiting to be captured? Micky rolled his eyes.

"Sooooo," the Dragon Man said, standing up from his chair. "He has fallen into my crutches!"

Well, Micky couldn't very well let that one go. "Your crutches?" He asked. "Not my crutches, my crutches!" Dragon man said. That hadn't cleared anything up at all. The waiter goon and Toto went out to capture Peter, and Micky couldn't help but feel frustrated that Peter had come in the first place.

He knew Peter could be smart if he wanted to, why did he do such dumb things sometimes? It was like there was a part of his brain where he kept all of his common sense, and sometimes that part was disconnected to the rest of Peter completely.

He didn't have long to stew, however, before Peter was brought in, tied to a chair, like Micky was, except his arms were tied down differently. Also, he was wearing a gag for some reason. Why would the goons gag him if the Dragon Man was going to interrogate him? That didn't make any sense.

As the goons wheeled Peter over next to Micky, he couldn't help but display a little dramatics.

"Thank Heavens you've come," He exclaimed, sarcasm lining every word. Peter blinked, realizing that Micky was angry at him for some reason, but obviously not sure why. Didn't he realize that giving himself up to be captured by the enemy would not only be placing himself in danger, but Micky as well? Probably not. He probably hadn't been thinking straight at all.

The gag was removed and Peter turned his attention to Dragon Man, who was talking.

"It was a bold and daring move, your coming here!" He said.

"I'd put my arm in the fire for Micky," Peter said. Well. That put a new spin on things. Peter had probably given himself up because he thought that by doing so, he could save Micky. Poor, naive Peter. As if the Dragon Man would just let Micky go, after all he had seen. All Peter had done was land himself in the very same boat.

Still, Micky couldn't stay mad at Peter now, even though he wanted to. None of this was really Peter's fault, he hadn't meant to take a top secret formula, and he certainly hadn't expected someone to break into the pad to try and kidnap him, just to capture Micky instead.

And even coming here had been an attempt to help Micky. A dumb attempt, a foolish attempt doomed to fail, but it had been for Micky. Peter couldn't help it if his plans never worked. So he wasn't angry at Peter anymore. He was still a little irritated, but he had a right to be after being kidnapped and tied to a chair.

"Oh, that's very specialized work," said the Dragon Man. "Now, Mr. Tork, I am a civilized man who abhors violence. TELL ME QUICKLY, where is the information!?"

Micky looked at Peter, surely, he wouldn't give the location away, he wasn't_ that_ dumb, right?

"You'll never get me to speak," Peter said. Micky breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, so he wasn't that dumb. Good.

CLANG! Dragon Man rang his gong, and Micky and Peter both flinched at the annoying sound.

"Toto!" Dragon Man said before turning to Peter. "Observe, please, Mr. Tork, the ant! He is numerous, he is patient, and he prevails!"

Micky chuckled nervously, noticing that Toto had obtained an ant farm filled with ants that certainly looked red. Hopefully it was just the lighting. "Hey, that's pretty good," he said. "You should write fortune cookies."

"Toto," Dragon Man said. "Persuade the young man to speak."

This was what Micky had been afraid of. When it was just him, Dragon Man had no reason to torture him, because he thought Micky hadn't known anything. Now that Peter was here, the "persuasion" would begin.

Toto, apparently, wasn't going fast enough, however, because then the Dragon man yelled out "The ants, the ants!"

"I know what I shall do, Master," Toto said with a grin. He lowered the ant farm down in front of Peter's face, and Micky looked away. He didn't like insects much at the best of times.

"I shall take the ten thousand red ants," Toto began.

"Stop!" Dragon Man ordered. Micky and Peter both looked up at him. "I thank you to do your fiendish work," he said, looking a bit sick. "But, don't tell me about it."

Huh. So the Dragon Man didn't like bugs either. "Yes, Master," Toto said, holding the ant farm up so Peter could watch the ants.

"Toto," Dragon Man said. "What is it you do with ten thousand red ants?"

Apparently, what Toto did with ten thousand red ants was what any normal kid with an ant farm did. He watched the ants dig tunnels.

It was actually pretty entertaining, once you got over the fact that there were sixty thousand tiny little legs and twenty thousand tiny antennae crawling around in the dirt. More entertaining than watching the Dragon Man play Monopoly, at least.

"Enough with the ants!" Dragon Man exclaimed finally. "Better yet... the Chinese ice torture!"

Peter and Micky gasped dramatically. "No!" Micky exclaimed. "Not the Chinese ice torture!"

"Yes!" Dragon Man said gleefully. "The Chinese ice torture!"

"What _is_ the Chinese ice torture?" Micky and Peter asked together.

Dragon Man was only too happy to explain. "A rope," he said. "Is tied around a small ice cube. A razor sharp dagger is fastened to the rope and suspended over the victims throat!"

Now Micky was getting nervous. Ten thousand red ants was one thing. This was beginning to sound bad. Real bad.

"As the ice cube melts," Dragon Man continued. "The dagger comes closer and closer to the victims throat!"

Now Micky was admittedly scared. It was obvious how this would end, even though the Dragon Man decided not to finish the description, as with a laugh, he ordered Toto to prepare the Chinese ice torture.

"No Master," Toto said. "I cannot do it."

"Ha," Dragon Man said. "Toto, you have no stomach for ice torture!"

"No, Master," Toto said sorrowfully. "We out of ice!"

Micky and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. No ice meant no Chinese ice torture.

Unfortunately for them, Dragon Man had his own personal stock of ice, for "Circumstances such as these," which was admittedly creepy in and of itself. What kind of guy kept a secret stash of ice so he could torture prospective victims?

So, Micky and Peter watched nervously as Toto tied two ropes around two blocks of ice, then fastened two sharp daggers to the ends of the ropes. Finally, he tied the ropes above Micky and Peter's heads, far enough away that they could see the daggers swinging slightly, not moving closer visibly, but they could tell it wouldn't take long for the ice to melt.

Especially now that Toto had found two cigarette lighters and was trying to speed the process along. Micky took a sideways glance at Peter, his knife was just a little bit closer to his throat than Micky's was, because Peter's chair was higher.

When would somebody burst into the room and get them out of this!? Surely there was somebody coming for them? Micky thought of Mike and Davy. He knew that wherever they were, they would be trying, but it was just the two of them against the Chinese Mob. The odds weren't exactly in their favor. Maybe Micky could talk them out of this.

"Now this..." His voice was shaky, he tried again. "This has gone far enough!" He said, as Peter nodded beside him. "Really! Micky continued. "We can't talk, because we don't know anything, because we can't talk, we're musicians, we're Monkees, we sing!"

"Yeah," Peter chimed in nervously. "Singers." Micky looked at him. "Sing," He said. "We're singers, sing!"

"Sing," Peter repeated. "Right, sing."

"Uh," Micky started. "Last train to Clarksville..." Peter joined in, and Micky closed his eyes as he tried not to picture the dagger coming down and stopping his singing for good.

"And I'll meet you... ice is melting..." Micky sang, as Peter stuck to the actual words.

"And the knife is getting sharper..." Peter was straying from the lyrics now too, apparently.

"The rope is getting lower," Micky added. "And I'll meet you at four thirty don't be... sharp..."

The together they did probably the worst rendition of "Oh no no no..." That they had probably ever done before.

"You expect me to believe you make money singing like that!?" Dragon Man snapped.

"I didn't say we made money, I said we sing," Micky said reproachfully. Really, with a dagger an inch away from his throat, they were supposed to sing well, too?

"Oh, so you're nothing but a singing group?" Dragon Man said, walking up behind them.

"Right!" Micky and Peter both said with relief. Maybe talking (and singing) their way out of things really worked!

"Ohhh," Dragon Man continued. "Than we have nothing to learn from you!"

"Right!" They agreed again. Maybe now Toto would take down the daggers!

"Well, then, I can merely kill you!" Dragon Man said happily. "Right," Micky and Peter said without thinking. Then his words registered.

"WRONG!" They both yelled.

But nothing they said could convince the Dragon Man. He had Toto remove the daggers and untie them from the chairs, which confused Micky. Why didn't he just kill them with the daggers if he was planning on killing them? Of course he didn't point that out.

He waited until he and Peter were both untied and standing together before he decided to satisfy his curiosity, as it had occurred to him that Dragon Man was way too commanding and in charge to be taking orders from someone else. "Before you kill us, Charlie," he said. "Tell me one thing. Who's number 1, who is Mr. Big?"

"Who do you suppose, my little Monkee?" Dragon Man said. "Mr. Big is Dragon Man!" He pointed to himself proudly, while Peter and Micky gave each other a knowing glance.

"Oh, Well, isn't that always the way?" Peter said with a seemingly thoughtful bit of sarcasm. "The fellow you least suspect."

"I am a civilized man," Dragon Man said, ignoring their comments. "I offer you... I offer you a chance to save your lives!"

"Oh-ho, you're a real sport!" Micky said sarcastically. "Hey," Peter warned, grabbing Micky's arm. "Don't make trouble!" Maybe he was right, but Micky still felt angry at Dragon Man for causing all this trouble in the first place.

Fortunately, Dragon Man ignored this too.

"Behind you," he said. "You see four doors. Three of them, three, my friends, are marked for sudden death! The fourth will lead to freedom! It is your choice! You have sixty seconds to choose!"

Then, flipping an hourglass (Or, a minute glass), the Dragon Man and his goons left the room, leaving Micky and Peter alone.

"Hey, this is gonna be fun!" Peter said, looking around at the doors.

"This is not any game, Peter," Micky said absently, also gazing around him. They would have to figure out which door didn't lead to "sudden death" quickly or Dragon Man would be back and kill them for real.

"Let's see what's behind this door," Peter said from behind him, and Micky turned to see him reach for the doorknob.

"No, wait!" He exclaimed, rushing forward to stop him. He succeeded, by running into Peter, who then hit his face on the doorjamb.

"Just open it a crack first," Micky said, exasperated. What was up with Peter today? It was as if he just wasn't even trying to think things through at all.

He moved past Peter and slowly cracked the door open a little. He didn't quite make out what was behind it, he just saw something fast with teeth and heard a loud roar. Jumping, he shut the door and leaned against it, letting out a sigh of relief as he didn't feel the attack he had been sure would happen.

"It sounded alright to me," Peter said. Micky wasn't sure at this point whether he was joking or being serious. "Let's try the next door, I thought I heard a rattle," he said.

"Maybe it's a baby," Peter said. Heh. Cute. Micky smiled pointedly at what he was sure had to be a joke, even coming from Peter, he couldn't have been serious. He hoped.

He didn't open the door this time, instead he knelt down and peered in through the keyhole.

Again, he saw something fast and some teeth, although dragonish fangs were more correct.

If there was one thing Micky hated more than insects, it was snakes. He let out a small yell and jumped up, startling Peter. "Ra-ra-ra-r-r-ra-rattlesnake," he stammered, holding his hand up to his heart. Peter sighed with relief. He'd thought something was truly wrong for a moment.

"I'll bet this door leads to freedom," he said, pointing at the second to last door. Well, he had better odds of being right than when he had chosen out of all four doors, but Micky still didn't like the odds very much.

Peter opened the door before Micky could get his breath back and stop him, however, and Micky found himself face to face with a cannon as it fired. He managed to slam the door shut before he and Peter were impaled, and he coughed as smoke came pouring into the room.

"Just in time," he said, waving the smoke away. "What do you mean, just in time?" Peter asked, also coughing. Micky smiled. "Well," he said, clapping his hands. "We know one thing, Baby, that's the door to freedom!" He pointed at the last door.

"Right you are," Peter said, and he and Micky walked over and opened the door.

CLAAAANG! The sound of the Dragon Man's gong crashed in their ears as the Dragon Man himself came through, followed by his goons, who were carrying knives.

"Hey, wait!" Micky cried out as he and Peter backed against the other doors. "You said one of these doors led to freedom!"

"Ah," Dragon Man said gleefully. "I didn't say it positively!" Well, that was just plain cruel.

"He's right, you know," Peter said, but Micky didn't have a chance to respond as suddenly Toto and Zheng advanced with a growl, raising their knives for the strike. They pushed Micky and Peter into the wall, and Micky closed his eyes. He didn't want to see it coming.

That was when he heard a crash, and he _didn't_ feel a sharp blade tear into his flesh. He looked up to see that Mike and Davy had kicked the door open. They were dressed in superhero outfits and wore glasses, but he could tell they were Mike and Davy because the tall one was wearing Mike's wool hat, and the other one was so short it was almost funny.

"That door was open!" Dragon Man said angrily.

"We're The Monkee Men!" Davy and Mike said heroically.

"We're saved!" Peter and Micky both said dramatically. Of course, Micky wasn't scared at all any more. Mike was here, and he'd brought Davy. Mike would never let anything happen to them, and when the four of them were together, they could get through almost anything.

He was a bit confused, however, when instead of any actual fighting, the two "Monkee Men" circled Toto, lauged, and then began insulting him.

"You're a nail biter," Davy informed Toto. It seemed to work, however, as Toto flinched and gasped as if he'd been hit. "You're a nail biter," Davy continued. "and your mother never ever loved you." Well, ouch. That one had to hurt. Toto recovered quickly, however, and decided to fight fire with fire.

"You are too short!" He exclaimed. Micky sucked in his breath. Davy's eyes grew wide and he looked incredulously up at Toto. This wouldn't end well. Toto seemed to see he'd hit a nerve, and repeated himself before adding more. "You are too short, and... you have no ear for music!"

"Oh!" Davy cried out dramatically. "Oh! Ah! Oh, Mike! Oh, Mike, he's got me! Help me, Mike!"

"Oh, yes, I'll do it, I'll handle this," Mike said helpfully, taking Davy's place in front of Toto. This should be good.

Mike took off his glasses and fixed Toto with a stare. "You're ugly," he said after a short pause. Peter and Micky grinned, Mike always knew what to say to someone! Or, what not to say to someone. "You're an ugly person," Mike continued. "Ugly, ugly, OOH, are you ugly!"

Micky was surprised. He reminded himself never to get on Mike's bad side.

"Nobody likes you," Mike said with a disdainful look at Toto. "Least of all me."

Toto clutched at his heart with a groan. "Nobody," Mike said. "No_body_ likes you." Toto began to whimper. Mike had won! "Take that," he said with a smirk.

"Enough of this!" Dragon Man yelled. "Get formula for Doomsday Bug!"

Micky looked nervously at Mike, but he had things handled, just like always. "Oh, what is this formula?" He said. "I have the Doomsday Bug here!" He held out his hand, pretending to hold something between his thumb and finger. "That is it, the Doomsday Bug!" He said. "The Bug itself!" He shook his hand in front of Toto and Zheng, who flinched and backed away from him. "Oh boy," Toto said. "Oh boy, Master, the bug."

He pointed at Mike the way a toddler would point at a rule breaker.

"Don't try to fool me with old bug trick, you have no bug!" Dragon Man exclaimed.

Davy picked up on this and insisted that Mike had the bug, even taking "it" away from him and continuing to wave it in Toto and Zheng's faces. Then he pretended to throw it at them, and they yelled and cowered and brushed "it" off their clothes.

"YOU FOOLS!" Dragon Man yelled. "There is no bug!"

"Oh yes, there is," Davy argued. "It's all over him now!"

Mike nodded them over and Micky and Peter crept past Toto and Zheng, following as Mike and Davy crept to the door. The way was blocked by the cook, however, and the cook was holding a gun. With a yell, the Monkees ran back into the main part of the room, where Toto and Zheng were sufficiently persuaded that they didn't have the Doomsday Bug on them, and all began to chase the Monkees, who had no choice but to run into the doors marked for "sudden death."

It wasn't as bad as it had seemed to be, however, and after running around for a while, (Which was a Monkees specialty), they managed to find some gauze to stick in their ears, and they gathered around the giant gong in the middle of the room and banged and banged on it while the Chinese Mob clutched at their ears in an attempt to drown out the noise. Suddenly, the CIA was there, and the Dragon Man and his lackeys were escorted away. The Monkees waved and called out a few goodbyes, and Micky danced a little and sang quietly, not that he could hear himself. They were still alive, now he had absolutely nothing to worry about.

Then they all realized that the guy from the CIA was trying to say something, so they all took the cotton out of their ears and leaned forward to listen.

"GOOD WORK, MEN!" He yelled, startling them. "I came as fast as I could," He said, looking at Mike. Well, fancy that. It was Micky and Peter that had been kidnapped and almost tortured. Maybe he figured that Mike was their leader.

"Well, how'd you get here, by boxcar?" Mike asked. Apparently he agreed that "Fast as he could" hadn't been fast enough. And personally, Micky agreed with him. If Mike and Davy hadn't come when they did, than he and Peter would probably be dead by now.

But, there was nothing to do about it now, so after the guy left, they all sat down around the table and began eating what was there. I mean, really, it had been almost a whole day for Micky, and Peter had been there for a few hours, and Davy and Mike were probably tired from being superheroes, and Dragon Man owed them all anyway.

So they sat and helped themselves, cracking jokes and talking about food until Peter had to go and open a fortune cookie.

"Hey guys I gotta get outta here," he said. "Why?" Mike asked suspiciously. Peter pointed at his fortune. "I have these instructions. I'm supposed to make contact with a tall man wearing a carnation on the corner of Spring and Elm..." Mike nodded at Davy and Micky who silently got up and headed towards Peter, who kept talking.

"Who'll give me a capsule which I'm supposed to take to the railway station, where a woman, wearing a beret..." Micky and Davy each took hold of one of Peter's wrists and had him stand up, and he continued reading. "Will get off and she'll..." He continued on as they guided him through the door towards the main entrance.

"Quite a bit of information for one slip of paper," Davy grumbled.

Micky blinked and took a look at the fortune Peter was reading. Written on the slip of paper was an old Chinese proverb: _If the wind comes from an empty cave, it's not without a reason._

"Peter!" He said, stopping in surprise. "You don't really have any instructions to make contact with anybody! You're joking!"

Peter smiled. "I was wondering how long it would take for someone to catch on," he said.

"Oh, Peter!" Davy said, although he was smiling too. "Why'd you do something like that?" Mike suddenly threw his head back and laughed, long and hard. Apparently, he thought it was really funny. It wasn't long before the others started to giggle too, and then they were all laughing right along with him, and as they began the walk back to the pad, two of them still in their superhero costumes and one still in his pajamas, laughing their heads off, so many people stopped and stared at them that they couldn't help but begin singing their Monkees song. As they sang, they couldn't stop laughing, which, in turn brought them more stares, which made them laugh even harder.

They finally arrived at the pad, and still laughing, they each went their separate ways to bed, exhausted from the days events but still the same old Monkees that they'd always been.


	21. A Simple Enough Question

_Author's notes: I wasn't particularly inspired by the next few episodes of the Monkees, I just couldn't really get into writing their stories. So, I did what I always do when I'm bored and there's no new material: I re-read some of my favorites. That's when I was inspred to write this, based on chapter 2 of Crystal Rose of Pollux's Lone Star and Union Jack, so the story that Mike and Davy tell here belongs to her. I love that chapter, and I still get the giggles every time I think about it. In fact, I was laughing the whole time I wrote this chapter, and I'm laughing right now as I write this forward. It just struck me as I was reading it, wouldn't Micky and Peter wonder why they didn't have a stove? I know I would. So then this happened. Enjoy!_

* * *

Nothing particularly interesting had been going on that day, there were no spies, no gang members, no kidnappers... all in all, the day had been rather boring, and Micky found himself wandering the pad with no thought in mind but to _do_ something.

Opening the refrigerator, he took a look inside. Empty, just like it had been the last time he checked, which was twenty minutes ago.

He shut the fridge and walked over to the living area, where Mike was reading newspaper ads and Peter was sitting strumming on his bass. "Hey, you wanna go to the beach?" He asked them. "Nah," Peter said. "We went to the beach yesterday. Besides, it looks like it might rain."

"How about you, Mike?" Micky asked. Mike shook his head. "Sorry, Mick," he said. "But we gotta find a gig by the end of this week, or we're not gonna be able to make our next rent payment."

Micky sighed. "Yeah, alright." he said, returning to pacing the pad.

Peter's prediction was correct, and soon enough the rain pelted the windows, pouring down like a waterfall. Without anything else to do, Micky stood and stared at it for several minutes before Mike came and stood next to him.

"Boy, it sure is coming down out there," the Texan muttered. "Why isn't Davy back yet?"

As if on cue, the front door opened and a dripping wet Davy entered the pad, panting as if he'd been running.

"Davy, what happened?" Peter asked, looking at him. Davy laughed. "What'd'ja think happened?" He said. "I got caught out in the rain. Ran all the way from the supermarket to get here."

"Well, go dry off, you're dripping all over the floor," Mike said, sitting back down now that he knew Davy was safe.

Micky sighed exasperatedly as Davy went upstairs to get changed into some dry clothes. "I'm so bored!" He exclaimed. "What are we supposed to do? We're trapped in this small house, there's nothing to do! The walls are closing in on me! I NEED TO GET OUT!"

"Would you calm down, Micky? You're distracting me!" Mike pleaded from the couch, without bothering to look up at him. "I know you're restless, but there's nothing we can do about it but wait until the storm passes."

"Storm?" Micky asked. "Why'd you say storm?"

"Cause I read the next scene," Mike deadpanned. Wait what? Scene? Didn't Mike know this wasn't the TV show? This was fanfic, by golly! He probably meant paragraph.

CRASH! Lightning struck outside as the fourth wall repaired itself, and Micky turned to the window with a start.

"Man, now it really is a storm!" He said. "Look at the size of those storm clouds! Wow, it sure is getting dark out there."

"Yep, it is." Mike said absently. Micky turned back to the room. "Come on," he said. "Let's do something!"

"Well, what do you propose we do?" Mike said irritably, putting the newspaper down. "Since you're so determined to not let me look for a job."

"Well, I don't know," Micky said with a shrug. "We could rehearse or something. ANYTHING beats sitting around and doing nothing at all!"

"That is true," Peter said. "We could rehearse for awhile. At least a couple of songs. Maybe if Micky gets rid of his energy by playing the drums, he'll be more likely to sit still when we've finished."

Mike sighed, but he agreed to rehearse a song.

"Davy!" Peter called up the stairs. "Hurry up, we're gonna rehearse!"

"I'll be down in a minute," Davy called from upstairs. "He'll be down in a minute," Peter reported to Mike, who had been standing right next to him and had heard everything. "Thanks Pete," he said dryly.

That was when all the lights went off. "Oh, this is just great!" Mike grumbled. "On top of everything else, the storm took out or power!"

"Boy, Mike, you sure are grumpy today," Micky commented. "What? No I'm not!" Mike said. "Yes you are," Micky insisted, unable to see anything in the darkness. "Tell him, Peter!"

"W-well, maybe a little," Peter said quietly. "M-Micky, Please g-get the c-candle."

Oh yeah. Peter didn't like the dark very much. "Yeah, I'm on it," he said, turning and feeling his way for the kitchen counter.

"Hey, why are all the lights off?" They heard Davy say from the top of the stairs. "Did the power go out? It's out in our room, too."

"Davy, be careful coming down the stairs," Mike said, but with a yelp and several thumps, it was obvious that his warning had come too late.

Micky bumped into the kitchen counter then, and he snickered as he edged the way around to the cupboard where they kept their emergency supplies.

"Now, what did I just say?" Mike was saying. "Wouldn't know, would I?" Davy replied cheekily. "I was too busy testing the durability of the stair-steps. Second one from the top creaks."

"Oh, does it?" Mike shot back with a snicker. Nobody could lift his bad moods quite like Davy.

Micky opened the door to the emergency supply cupboard and reached in, feeling around with his fingers, looking for the candle sticks and matches. His hands brushed across several of the other emergency supplies, the rock to throw at intruders, the blow horn in case of tornados, the two soup cans connected by a string in case the phone lines were down and they needed to call for help... Ah!

Pulling the large candle out of the cupboard, he reached around for the matches and struggled for a moment trying to get one to light. It finally did, and a portion of the room was illuminated in the light of the small flame.

The area directly in front of him came into focus, the hot plate and toaster oven that sat on the countertop. Micky set the candle down on a plate placed next to the toaster oven and held the match up to the wick until it caught.

Picking up the plate, Micky turned to the rest of the room and carefully carried the candle over to the living area and set the plate down on the coffee table. Peter sat down on the couch, looking a bit spooked but no doubt feeling better now that there was a little bit of light. Davy and Mike made their way to the living area and also sat down, Mike taking the couch next to Peter and Davy opting to sit on the floor. Micky sat down on a nearby chair and sighed.

"I guess rehearsing's out of the question now, huh?" He asked. Mike chuckled. "What do you think?" He asked. He looked at the newspaper, but didn't pick it up. With the lighting as dim as it was, reading the small print could really be bad for your eyes.

"Well, now what am I supposed to do?" Micky whined. Yes, he really was that restless.

"I don't know, try to be quiet and give us a moments peace?" Davy said. "Think of something to keep yourself entertained."

Micky rolled his eyes, but oddly enough, something did cross his mind. Something that he'd often wondered about but never really took the time to question.

"Hey Mike?" He asked. The Texan took a deep breath before answering. "Yes?" He asked. Micky smirked in the candle light. He still possessed the ability to drive people crazy when he was restless. His mom used to pay him to leave the house whenever he got like this as a kid. Mike was much more patient.

"You were the first one to live here at the pad, right?" He asked. Mike nodded. "Yep," he said. "Why?"

"Well, I was just wondering why there's no stove or oven," Micky said. "Did the apartment come like that, or what?"

There was a moment of silence, and Micky saw a strange look come over Mike's face.

Then both he and Davy burst into laughter.

Micky was confused. "What?" Micky asked, when the two had finally calmed down a bit. "What's so funny?"

Mike and Davy didn't answer, instead, they just burst into laughter once more. Micky turned to Peter, who shrugged, obviously just as confused as he was.

"Well," Mike began, wiping his eyes. "It all started a few months after Davy moved in..."

That was as far as he got before the laughter overtook him again, and Davy picked up on the story. "We didn't really interact much, he and I," he said. "We were just roommates so we could afford the rent. That was it."

Mike had stopped laughing now, and took a deep calming breath. "We tried to stay out of each others way, and it worked. Sometimes we would go for a week without even seeing each other."

Micky was surprised. He hadn't ever really thought of a time when Mike and Davy hadn't been friends. But apparently, there had been such a time.

Davy continued the story. "He used to make this nasty smelling stuff every Sunday," He said with a giggle.

"It wasn't nasty, it was garlic toast," Mike said, half joking, half defensive. "Doesn't matter what you called it," Davy said. "It was nasty to me. So one Sunday, I decided to fight back."

"Oh no," Micky said, as Mike succumbed to laughter once more.

Davy nodded smugly. "I got a bit of sauerkraut," he said. "Boiled it up so he would smell it."

"And boy, did I smell it," Mike said, still laughing. "Came out here to see what on earth he could have possibly done, and there he was, sitting there and looking at me all smug. I knew right then what was going on."

Davy was laughing the hardest now, clutching his side as Mike kept talking.

"I went to the fridge, 'cause I knew there was a fish in there."

"No way," Micky said. "A fish? Where'd you get a fish?"

"I don't even remember now, it was years ago," Mike said. "But I can tell you one thing; it wasn't fresh!"

"So then he started frying it up," Davy said. "And it smelled so bad I had to leave the pad and go walk down the beach!"

"You mean he won?" Micky asked. Mike laughed. "Oh no," he said. "I'm still not entirely sure what that glob of stuff was he cooked up next."

Micky and Peter looked at Davy, who had a gleam in his eye as he said "Stilton Blue Cheese."

Micky's jaw dropped and Peter laughed himself. "Oh Davy," he said. "You didn't!"

"Oh, but I did!" Davy said. "Put it in a pot and melted it down so he would smell it. I still remember the look on his face when I asked if he surrendered. He had his hat over his face, you know, like a gasmask, and-" He couldn't go any further, because he burst into giggles once again.

"What did you do? What did you do?" Peter asked, turning to Mike with a grin. Mike laughed as he said "I looked at him, standing there all smug and proud of himself, and I said "Never." The war was on, after that."

"I grabbed everything I could think of, cooking it all up together to make it smell bad," Davy managed to say in between giggles. Mike was still laughing, and by now, Micky and Peter had joined him.

"I was doing the same thing," Mike said. "Wasted almost all of my leftovers, trying to stink up my own house."

"At one point, I managed to burn a can of spinach paste," Davy said. "Nastiest thing I'd ever smelt. Well, before what he did next, that is."

Peter didn't even have to ask this time, Mike laughed hard and then took another deep breath, wiping his eyes before replying in a shaky voice, "I made my Aunt Kate's Volcano Chili," he said. "Except I doubled everything in it that smelled."

They all laughed as he tried to keep steady so he could finish his story. "Onions, garlic, and every pepper we had in the house. Green peppers, banana peppers, a ton of chili peppers, and about a dozen habanero peppers on top of that."

"I could hardly breathe, I had to stick me head out the window," Davy said, laughing still. "I can still smell it sometimes, when I close my eyes and think about it."

"I'll admit, it was a bit too much for me too," Mike said. "I ended up sharing the window with Davy."

"That's when Mr. Babbit came crashing in," Davy said, giggling.

"Ohhhh," Micky and Peter said with a laugh. Now it all made sense.

"Told us we were lowering the property value," Mike added. "Made us go out and bury the whole slew of it on the beach."

"Only the seagulls got to it before we could do that," Davy said. "Who would've thought they liked garlic toast, sauerkraut, fried fish, stilton cheese, volcano chili and Everything Pudding?"

"How'd you explain it to Mr. Babbit?" Micky asked, clutching his side.

"Told him we were trying to make breakfast," Davy said with a grin. "I'm not sure he believed us, but he was too busy yelling to call our bluff."

"He sent someone over to take the stove that very week," Mike said. "That's the fastest I've ever seen him do something for home improvement."

This earned another bout of laughter, and when they were finally quieted down enough, Davy turned to them with a grin. "You know what Mike said then?" He said. "What?" Peter and Micky both asked. "He said-" Davy stopped to choke back his laugh. "He said... "This is why we can't have nice things"."

They all laughed once more. "Man, I haven't thought of that day in a long time," Mike said, once they were finally quieted down. "Yeah, me neither," Davy said. "You know, that was the first time we ever hung out," he said, looking at Mike.

Mike nodded. "I remember," He said. "Two loners, two independent types, wanting nothing really to do with each other."

"Man, I can hardly imagine that," Peter said. "I mean, you've been best friends for as long as I've known you, I just can't imagine you ever being anything else."

"Yeah, I can hardly imagine it now myself," Mike admitted. "I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for Tiny over here. Or the two of you, really. I feel like I just wouldn't be me if you all weren't a part of it."

"Yeah," Davy agreed. "Me neither."

Micky and Peter both voiced their assent, and everyone was quiet for awhile.

"So what about you two?" Davy asked suddenly. "How'd you guys meet?"

"Oh..." Micky said, blushing a little. "I ran into him."

Davy and Mike both stared. "You... ran into him?" Mike asked, confused. Micky nodded. "Literally," he said. "He was standing there, and I was running, and I didn't see him, and..."

"Oh," Davy said, laughing. "Great start to a friendship, right there," He said.

Peter laughed. "You'd better believe it," he said.

And as the power outage continued and the storm raged outside, Peter and Micky began their tale.

But now Micky knew. Now it all made sense why they didn't have a stove or an oven. He was glad he'd asked, that little story of Mike and Davy's was a piece of genius, he hadn't heard anything that funny in a long time. People had always been easily frustrated whenever Micky had a bunch of questions, but didn't they see that unless you asked a question, you'd never hear the answer? The only way to learn was to ask.

And if there was anything Micky liked to do, it was ask questions.


	22. Closed Doors are Meant to Stay Closed

_Author's note: This chapter is based off season 2 Episode 5, Art For Monkees Sake, one of my all time favorites. I absolutely love when Mike, Davy and Micky are looking for Peter, and Micky meets that crazy artist and Mike sees that guy destroy that grand piano, and I love the entire Mission: Ridiculous scene, from the moment they begin climbing up to the rooftops to the moment when they get captured. It makes me giggle the whole time. XD_

* * *

Peter really hated being kidnapped. No, really, it was getting to be quite an issue. He didn't know what it was about him in particular that made all the evil people in the world decide to kidnap him. The other Monkees didn't get kidnapped nearly as much as he did, and one of the times that Micky had been kidnapped, they had even been aiming for Peter.

This time, he had been kidnapped by two art thieves pretending to be security guards. They'd kidnapped him, forced him to copy a painting, and now they were taking his copy to replace the real painting that they were going to steal. They had left him bound and gagged in the basement.

Hopefully, they wouldn't notice that he'd signed his name on the copy until it was too late to change it out.

And hopefully the others would notice he was missing and come looking for him.

Really, he had been gone all night. He knew Micky wouldn't have thought about it, and Davy might not have thought much about it either, but he felt confident at least Mike would notice he was gone.

Maybe they were looking for him now. Maybe they had run into the thieves dressed like security guards, and maybe the thieves had sent them on a wild goose chase somewhere else.

Or maybe the thieves had gotten rid of them some other way. Peter shuddered. He decided not to think about that.

Art was just too dangerous, he decided. And all he had wanted to do was paint a few pictures of doors. He liked doors. Doors could hold mysterious secrets behind them, doors could be gateways to strange new places, or doors could be familiar and strong, security from the unknown, shutting the world out and the home in.

And then those lousy thieved had to come and make him paint a copy of that other painting. He knew they weren't real security guards the moment the big one had come up to him and almost slugged him for copying the door in the first place. After that, he'd decided to go for his default defense mechanism and play dumb, all while trying to stall them long enough for the others to come and find him. He knew the thieves couldn't hurt him as long as the painting wasn't finished, because they needed it for their plan.

But he had finally run out of ways to stall, and had reluctantly finished the painting. He had waited for the strike to come, the big thief had been begging to be allowed to do it all day, when he thought Peter couldn't understand.

But the final strike never came. The phone rang, and the boss had answered, told someone that they'd be right there, and had the big one tie Peter up.

"Business before pleasure," he had said. That left Peter little room to doubt. If he didn't get rescued before the painting was stolen, the big guy would come to finish him off.

How did he always manage to get into such desperate situations?

* * *

After awhile, the big guy came down to hide the real painting. Pinching Peter's cheek, he said something about suffering and then ran back upstairs. That was just rude.

It wasn't long after that when the others finally came downstairs to look for him.

"What are you doing down here tied up with a gag in your mouth?" Micky asked. What a stupid question. As if he could answer, with a gag tied in his mouth.

Mike pulled the gag down and Micky asked again.

"What are you doing down here with a gag out of your mouth?"

As if that made the answer any less obvious. Why would anybody sit in a basement for hours tied up if they hadn't been kidnapped?

"I'm suffering for my art," he said sarcastically.

They ignored him and found the real painting. "That's a beautiful copy, Peter," Micky said.

"The man who painted that was brilliant," Peter said. The man who painted that had never been stupid enough to get kidnapped by security guards and forced to copy another man's work. He assumed. It could have happened.

"That means they switched the paintings," the others said. It would have hurt if Peter hadn't agreed with them.

With that, they untied Peter and they all went upstairs to tell the curator about the thieves.

The curator didn't believe them and sent the four of them packing.

Discussing what to do, they decided to sneak back in that night and switch the real painting for the fake. It was the only thing to do, since the curator didn't believe them, and as long as they had the real painting, the thieves would be after them.

So they embarked on Mission: Ridiculous late that night. The whole thing was a disaster. Davy knocked over a priceless statue, Peter had forgotten to take the real painting down with them (he blamed the memory eraser), and the big guard had woken up and began hunting them down. They pretended to be statues, however, and luckily for them, the big guard was dumber than Peter, so he just took their sandwich and left.

Mike told Micky and Peter to follow the guard, so they did, Micky still acting like a leopard.

After the guard left, Peter stood up straight, and said in a deep voice, "He's in for a lot of trouble."

Micky, playing along, almost smiled, but managed to keep a straight face. "Why, because we're switching the paintings?" He asked, also in a deep voice.

"No, because I put hot mustard on those sandwiches."

He hadn't spent years with Micky for nothing. With Micky, everything was a joke, and if you knew him long enough, you managed to pick up a few jokes along the way.

They ran back to where Mike and Davy were just finishing switching the painting, and they all ran for the ladder to make their getaway, Mission: Ridiculous marked as a success, despite all the problems they'd caused.

But Micky stopped halfway up the ladder.

"Why'd you stop?" Mike asked him.

"We have traffic coming in the other way," Micky answered.

"Don't they know this is a one-way rope ladder?" Peter quipped.

"I don't think so," Micky answered, jumping to the ground.

It turned out to be the boss thief, who wasn't dumb enough to be fooled by their excuses and pulled out a gun. Micky chuckled nervously and let out another leopard meow.

Then the big guard came up behind them. Startled, the four Monkees yelled and ran as fast as they could to get away.

They ran all over the museum, they ran up to the rooftops, they ran into all the studios, they ran down to the basement and hid among the supplies and the boxes and all the creepy stone statues that Peter felt sure were staring at him, and then they finally led the thieves up to the invisible beams and got themselves and the two thieves caught in the jail trap in five seconds.

They all fell asleep, exhausted, knowing that they were trapped, but that everything could be explained and sorted out in the morning.

* * *

Back at the pad, the adventure all over, Peter began fiddling with a different branch of creativity. Painting was just too much trouble.

Mike walked over, goofily singing Papa's Gene Blues, and laid down on the backless couch.

"Peter," Micky said, walking up to where Peter was working on his new hobby. "I am awful glad that you gave up painting."

Peter nodded. "I got a new hobby now," he said.

"What's that?" Micky asked worriedly.

"I'm building things," Peter said.

"Oh," Micky said in relief- right before he sat down on the chair and it gave. He fell hard to the ground and looked up at Peter, who smiled sheepishly.

"I needed a few parts," he explained.

"Peter?" Mike said, helping Micky to his feet.

"Yeah Mike?" Peter asked.

"Maybe you should stick to music," Mike suggested.

Peter nodded, looking down at the splintered chair. "I think you're probably right," he said. Maybe art itself wasn't the problem. Maybe danger was always around the corner for Peter because he was just that kind of person.

Hopefully, he would find his place one day, and then maybe he would stop getting kidnapped so often.

'Cause really, getting kidnapped was a real drag.


	23. Mind Over Monkee

_Author's notes: This chapter is based off Season 2 Episode 6: I was a 99 Lb. Weakling. I like the way this one turned out, I think it's a nice little addition to end the story further than the episode did._

_Also, I know that the episode aired a couple years before the famous "One small step for man" speech at the moon landing, but I wrote without thinking, and it turned out so good I hated to take it out, and I think that if the Monkees had continued to air for a few years further, they would have said something like this, so I went ahead and left it in. If you want to flame me for getting the dates wrong, go ahead. I stand by my stories._

* * *

Peter groaned loudly and put his head in his hands. This was getting out of hand. Well, more our of hand than it already was, at any rate. He found himself wishing, for the upteenth time that day, that Mike was there.

"She said she liked a mind, and I don't have a mind. I lost it, but I have a body now! But she doesn't dig that. She digs a mind. And I don't have a mind, I traded it- I mean sold- I mean, I mean-"

Davy cut Micky off in the middle of his speed talk.

"Lemme get this straight," he said. "After all that work you did to get strong, after all we did to get you out of that fraud Sha Khu's body building scam, you find out that Brenda digs a guy with a mind?"

"Uh-huh," Micky moaned pathetically, putting his head on the table, which was covered with huge dusty books he had borrowed from the library. "And now she's going out with the smart guy on the beach. I've gotta get smart, so I can win her back. I'm not going to stand for this any more! So long to stupid Micky!"

"Now wait a minute," Peter said desperately. "Only a couple days ago, it was so long to Skinny Micky!"

"Well, who cares about strength now?" Micky said. "Brenda digs a guy with a mind!"

"It sounds to me like Brenda just digs any new guy she meets," Davy said.

"Yeah," Micky said sadly. "New."

"So..." Peter said tentatively. "Are you gonna keep trying to change yourself to win Brenda?"

"What else can I do, when she doesn't dig me?" Micky exclaimed. "If she digs smart guys, I can't stay dumb! I gotta learn, I gotta study!"

He flipped open one of the huge books on the table and began feverishly reading, muttering out loud a few words or phrases.

Peter sighed. "What are we gonna do?" He asked, turning to Davy, who shrugged.

"I don't know," the shorter man said. "Wait for Mike to get home?"

Mike had had to go away for a few days, for a family emergency in New Gallifrey, Texas, which left the others coping by themselves.

Peter shook his head. "We can't do that," he said, looking over at Micky, who had placed a pair of reading glasses on the edge of his nose as he read. "If we don't figure out how to stop this now, he's just going to dig himself deeper and deeper in trouble to impress Brenda."

"I don't see how he's getting into trouble," Davy pointed out. "I mean, he's just sharpening his mind a little, that's a good thing, right?"

"It is when you're doing it for the right reasons," Peter said with a frown. "But Micky's not doing it because he really wants to learn, he's doing it because he wants to change who he is, so he can impress a girl who changes her mind about what she wants every few hours. If he keeps at it, he won't know who the real Micky is after awhile."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Davy said with a sigh. "It's too bad, I was looking forward to meeting 'Smart Micky.' Oh well, let's get at it then, shall we?"

With that, the two boys walked over to stand on either side of Micky, who was too busy reading aloud to pay much attention.

"Micky," Peter said. Micky didn't respond, just kept on reading.

"Micky?" Davy tried. Micky kept reading.

"Micky, hello, Micky?" Peter waved his hand in front of Micky's face, but Micky just took hold of Peter's wrist and began reading his palm.

"Earth to Micky," Davy said from inside a space suit. "Come in, Micky, over."

"But if you're Earth," Peter said while Micky continued to read his palm. "Then shouldn't Micky be the one in the space suit?"

Then Micky was in a space suit while Davy and Peter sat at a desk with a sign on it reading "GROUND CONTROL," speaking into an intercom.

"Earth to Micky, come in Micky, over," Davy tried.

"One baby step for man, one bear step for- no wait, one big step for baby, one leap for- Oh, how did it go again?" Peter said into his intercom. "One leap for frogs, one half skip and a jump for- for elephants..."

"Micky, come in, Micky, this is ground control," Davy said.

"One big step for man, one... even bigger step... for a Monkee..."

"Man, nothing's working," Davy said as the two of them once again stood beside Micky, who was poring over his books.

"You guys just don't understand," Micky said, glancing up at them. "I can't stay dumb forever, 'cause chicks don't like dumb guys, so I gotta learn, I gotta get smarter."

"So then what?" Peter asked. "Then what are you going to do when Brenda falls for a guy with money?"

"I'll learn to be rich," Micky said without skipping a beat. "And then I'll make tons of money."

"Oh yeah?" Davy asked. "Then what are you gonna do when she falls for a guy with looks?"

"I'll hire a personal stylist," Micky said.

"And then what'll you do when she falls for a musician?" Peter asked.

"Easy, I'll learn how to play an instrument and join a band," Micky said.

"Micky, you're already in a band," Davy pointed out.

Micky paused. "...Oh yeah," he said.

"Don't you see?" Peter said. "You're already forgetting who you are, 'cause you're too busy trying to change yourself for Brenda!"

"Guys, I'm not trying to _change_," Micky said, looking up at them. "I'm just trying to... expand a little."

"Yeah?" Peter said. "Because you haven't played the drums once since this whole thing started."

"That's not my fault," Micky said. "I haven't had the time-"

"Because you were too busy with Brenda, I know," Davy said.

"And now I have to study!" Micky said, returning to his books. "I don't have time to worry about that stuff, 'cause unless I learn this fast, she'll change her mind before I can show her how much smarter I am than that smart guy from the beach!"

"Why does it matter if you're smarter than the guy at the beach?" Peter demanded. "You just said yourself, she'll change her mind as soon as you manage it."

"Cause I need to show her that I'm good enough," Micky snapped. "I need to show her, I need to show everyone, that I'm good enough for them! I need to show them that I'm not a skinny weakling or a dumb kid! I need to show them that I'm good enough for them, no matter what they say!"

And there was the root of the problem.

"Micky," he said seriously. "Being good enough isn't about changing yourself to fit what other people want you to be. Being good enough is knowing who you really are and doing the best you can with what you have."

Micky looked at him, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to believe him.

Peter continued. "You can try as hard as you can to be super strong or super smart," he said. "But if it isn't the real you, everyone's going to see that you're just pretending to be something that you're not. You know what kind of guys I think Brenda digs? I think she digs guys who are real about who they are. I don't think she likes fakers."

Micky sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right," he said. "But what if she doesn't like the real me?"

"Then she's not worth chasing," Davy said. "If a girl constantly expects you to change who you are to fit her whims, there's no reason to let her control you. If she doesn't like you for who you are, that means she doesn't really like _you_ at all, just the guy you were pretending to be."

"The thing about fakers," Peter said, "Is that everyone knows they're fake. When you try to act like something you're not, you just end up looking like a fool, a skinny kid wearing shoulder pads and a winter coat, walking down the beach pretending to be strong."

"Hey, that was your idea, you know," Micky said defensively, but Peter could tell he was more joking than actually offended at the remark. He breathed a sigh of relief. Micky was back to his old self.

"Yeah, well," Peter said with a smile. "I'm not going to pretend to be smart. You're the one who agreed to one of _my_ plans."

"Yeah, I know, I wasn't thinking straight," Micky joked, shutting the book and taking off his glasses. "Who's more foolish, the fool or the fool who follows him?"

Peter blinked. "M-Micky," He said. "You said something smart!"

"Hey, I did!" Micky said, eyes wide. "I think I read that in one of those books! I actually learned something!"

"Yeah, and that was all you," Davy added. "None of the fake stuff you would have been spouting to Brenda to make that poor sap at the beach look bad!"

"What makes you call him a poor sap?" Micky asked curiously.

"Well," Davy said. "Brenda's walking down the beach with an artist."

Going over to the balcony, they saw that Davy was right. Brenda walked down the beach, hand in hand with a young man in a beret and a scarf, holding a half finished painting of the ocean. Behind her, looking crestfallen, was the smart guy from the beach, book long forgotten as he watched the new couple.

"You know, that really is pathetic," Davy stated, shaking his head at the scene below.

"Yeah," Micky said with a laugh. "Pathetic."

Peter smiled. If Micky was joking it off, then he was back to the real Micky. No more strong Micky, no more smart Micky. Everything was back to the way it should be, and Peter could rest easy, knowing that tomorrow they would have moved past this whole thing and would one day laugh about it all.


	24. Connecticut Dreamer: Fairy Tale Redux

_Author's notes: This chapter is based off season 2, episode 16, Fairy Tale. I tried to give a plausible explanation for this episode, as it is so funny that I hated to just pretend it didn't exist. Also, this chapter takes place mostly from Mike's point of view, which was kind of an accident, but I liked how it turned out, so I kept it in, even though this story is supposed to focus on Peter and Micky._

_The timeline gets really cut up here, as half of it is basically in flashback mode anyway. Every time you're reading something from the past, I have it marked, but when there is no mark, it means it took place in "present day" 1967-8, whenever this episode aired. Enjoy!_

* * *

Groaning, Peter slowly came to. He looked around, he seemed to be in a hospital bed. He blinked in confusion. What was he doing there? Hearing a snore from across the room, he turned his head, only to regret it as a wave of pain came on him. He held his hand up to his head, his head was bandaged.

He still didn't know who had been snoring, so he tried again, this time moving a bit slower.

Davy, Mike, and Micky all were there in the room, sleeping. Davy was curled up like a cat on a soft chair, his small size making it possible for him to sleep on the seat without falling off. Mike was sitting against the wall, his arms folded across his chest and his head bowed, as if he had fallen asleep while stubbornly trying not to. And Micky was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, spread-eagle style, as if he had been trying to make a snow angel and had fallen asleep half-way through.

He reminded Peter somewhat of a squashed spider, and it made him laugh quietly.

Mike was a light sleeper, apparently, so the sound woke him up.

"Peter!?" He exclaimed, standing up. "You're awake?"

"I guess so," Peter said, smiling. "What happened?"

But Mike was too busy waking Davy and Micky to answer right away.

"Guys, wake up," he was saying. Davy jerked awake and hit his head on the arm of the chair.

"Ow," he said. "Mike, what'd you go and do that for?"

"Peter's awake," Mike explained.

Davy sat up. "Peter!" He said with a smile. "Micky, wake up, Peter's awake!"

"I don't wanna eat brussel sprouts," Micky whined sleepily. "Leave me alone."

"Come on, Micky, wake up!" Mike said, nudging Micky with his boot.

"Huh?" Micky slurred, sitting up slowly. "Hey, where'd the yeti go?"

"Never mind that," Mike said. "Peter's awake."

"Peter!?" Micky exclaimed, jolting wide awake. "How're you feeling?"

"I'm not sure," Peter answered. "What happened?"

"Don't you remember?" Davy asked him.

Peter shook his head. "The last thing I remember is sitting at the pad, looking at the job ads in the newspaper."

There was something else, though, he was sure of it. Something about a carriage...

"Well, if you don't remember, I guess we'd better fill you in," Mike was saying. Peter focused his attention on him and Mike began his story.

* * *

**Malibu, CA, the previous day:**

Mike sighed as he looked in the empty refrigerator. They were completely out of food again, the leftovers he had brought the night before from the restaurant where he worked as a waiter had been used up almost as soon as he'd brought them in the door.

Not that he blamed anybody, a few boxes of food split among four starving musicians was hardly enough to fill them. But still, he was hungry and unless they got a gig soon, they were going to have to resort to eating the furniture.

It had been slow business lately, and all of the Monkees had resorted to looking for other jobs. They had each managed to find one, Mike as a waiter, Micky stocking shelves in the shoe section at a department store, and Davy a salesperson at that same store. Peter had also gotten a job at the supermarket, but one mishap and an entire bin of ruined tomatoes found him back at the pad, poring over the want ads in search of a new job, preferably one that didn't involve perishable foods or precarious display bins.

That was when Davy and Micky came running into the pad, breathless and panicking, yelling something about danger and thieves and a plot and being followed.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Mike said, quieting the two down. "Start from the beginning. What's going on?"

"We were working at the store," Davy said. "And this guy came in with this girl, who was looking to buy a dress. She said she was playing a princess in a medieval fair, so I tried to tell her that we didn't sell anything that would work for that, but then the lights all went off and she screamed, and when they came back on, her locket was missing, the guy had taken it and ran!"

"Okay, so what does this have to do with the two of you?" Mike asked.

"Well, when all the lights went off," Micky said, taking over the story from Davy. "I was up on a ladder, organizing the top shelf. I still don't know how it always manages to get mixed up, nobody can reach it."

"You're getting sidetracked," Mike said.

"Well, I tried to climb off the ladder," Micky said, getting back on point. "But I missed the rung and fell off. I guess I landed on the guy who'd stolen it, 'cause then he yelled at me for a minute and ran off. But he dropped this."

Micky reached into his pocket and pulled out a gaudy-looking gold locket.

"Once he realized it was missing, he came looking for it," Davy said. "But I told Micky it had been stolen and we made a break for it. He saw us and chased us halfway across town before we managed to lose him at the bus station, and he didn't have any change for the bus fare."

"So what are we going to do?" Micky asked hurriedly. "It won't take long for him to find out where we live, we've gotta return it to Gwen before it's too late!"

"Gwen?" Mike asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, that's her name," Davy said.

"How do you know that?" Mike said, turning to Davy.

"Got her number, didn't I?" The younger man said defensively. "She wasn't too happy after Harold stole her locket and ran off."

"Wow," Mike said. "Well, I guess the thing to do is to return the locket to this Gwen girl and tell the police about Harold."

"How are we going to do that?" Peter asked him.

"Davy, you said she was going to play a princess at a medieval fair?" Mike asked. Davy nodded.

"Then I guess we'll go look for her there," Mike decided. "When does it open?"

Peter looked back at the newspaper, he had seen an ad on the fair while he was looking for a job. "It opens tomorrow," he said.

* * *

Peter listened to the story, enthralled and feeling a strange sense of deja vu. Gwen? Harold? A locket? This was all sounding very familiar. Somewhere in the back of his head, he could practically hear a voice, a very familiar voice. _"Never let it be said that a princess didn't reward a favor."_

"What happened at the fair?" He asked.

"Well, now, that's when it got interesting," Mike said.

* * *

**Malibu, CA, earlier that day:**

The Monkees showed up at the fair, Mike in front, the others bumping into him as they looked around at the fair. "Gee, what a weird place," Micky said, as a man dressed in a dragon-ish suit walked by. "I wonder what his story is."

"Well, we don't have time to find out," Mike said. "Let's just find this Gwen person and give the locket back to her."

"Oh no!" Davy whispered suddenly. "Guys! That's Harold!"

A mean looking man walked by as Davy and Micky ducked out of sight. Harold had never seen Mike or Peter, so they didn't need to hide.

After he had walked away, Mike turned to the others. "Okay," he said. "Here's what we're going to do: Pete and I are gonna follow Harold, and see what he's up to. Davy, since you're the only one who's ever seen her, you and Micky try to find Gwen and give her the locket. Got it?"

"Got it," the others all said. With that, they set off.

Mike and Peter followed Harold for awhile, and then he went into a tent, with the words "Mysterious Marlowe." Mike and Peter slowly crept up to the tent and leaned in to listen to what was being said.

"And then," They heard Harold say. "I shall enter the Jousting tournament. Do I win?"

"I see you, standing over all the others, and all of our business has paid off," Another voice said. "Yes, on this the spirits are quite clear, you will be adorned with silver!"

"Ah!" Harold said. "So it will work! I am so glad I found you! You have been right about every prediction so far."

"Quick, he's coming out!" Mike whispered, and he and Peter stood aside as Harold left the tent and strode away.

"Gee, Mike, what do you think that was about?" Peter asked. "I'm not sure," Mike said. "Let's go see this Mysterious Marlowe person in the tent."

He started to walk towards the tent flap, but Peter stopped him. "Wait," he whispered.

"What?" Mike asked.

Peter paused. "I don't like fortune tellers," He admitted. "They give me the creeps."

"Oh, don't worry about that, man," Mike said. "Fortune tellers are just regular people like you and me, they just put on some scary make-up and sit in the dark, and they make generalized statements that can be applied to just about anything. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Peter wasn't convinced, but he followed Mike as he went into the tent.

"Ah, I'd expected to get a visit from a few Monkees today," The woman in the tent said.

"Mike!" Peter whispered worriedly. "How'd she know who we were!?"

"Relax, Pete," Mike said. "She probably saw us perform somewhere once and remembered us from then. She's not really telling the future."

"Oh, okay," Peter said as the two boys sat down in front of what appeared to be a crystal ball.

"I see you are a skeptic," Marlowe said, looking at Mike.

Peter clutched Mike's arm.

"And I see you are a chicken," She said to Peter.

"How'd you guess!?" Peter asked, eyes wide. Mike rolled his eyes.

"I have a question, Mysterious Marlowe," Mike said. "I want to know what Harold was doing here."

"I... do not see this 'Harold' you speak of." Marlowe said.

"That guy who just left this place," Mike said. "What was he doing here, what did he want to find out?"

Marlowe narrowed her eyes into the crystal ball. "The spirits tell me you are down on your luck," she said. "They show me what they want to show me, nothing more. They say that you will succeed, but you will also fail. Long is the road to freedom, and it will never be noticed from a trotting horse. That is all. Good luck to you and yours, and remember that bad times are only times that are bad. Good day to you both."

With that, the two boys left the tent.

"See," Mike said. "Generalized statements. I told you there was nothing to be afraid of."

"What do you think she meant about a trotting horse?" Peter asked anxiously. "She said to remember that bad times are only times that are bad. Does that mean we'll have a bad time soon?"

Mike let out a deep breath. "Man, you'll believe anything you hear, won't you?" He said.

Peter nodded, eyes wide. "She said that we'd succeed, but we'd also fail. What does that mean?"

"I'll tell you what I'm wondering," Mike said. "I'm wondering what a gypsy fortune teller's tent is doing in a medieval fair. That doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe she's a witch in disguise," Peter said.

Mike looked at him. "...What?" He asked.

"You know," Peter said. "Since witches were always hunted down, maybe this one was a witch in disguise."

"A witch disguised as a gypsy fortune teller from the future?" Mike asked, raising his eyebrows. "Seems like they'd still hunt her down."

"Maybe she doesn't know that," Peter said.

Mike shook his head. "Let's just go find the others," he said.

* * *

"Do you remember any of that?" Davy asked, and Peter shook his head.

"No," he said. "But I'm glad I don't. He's right, fortune tellers do give me the creeps. What _did_ she mean by the trotting horse?"

"Well, turns out, you decided she'd meant that you were supposed to enter the joust to try and make sure Harold didn't win," Mike said. "We tried to talk you out of it, but..."

* * *

**Malibu, CA, earlier that day:**

"It was foretold, Mike," Peter said seriously, as, dressed in knight's armor, he mounted the horse. "I have to do this, it's the only way to stop Harold!"

"Peter, there're plenty of other ways," Davy said from beside the horse. "Although, I haven't been able to find Gwen anywhere."

"She's probably languishing in some dim-lit cell some place," Micky said unconcerned. "Either that or she's found Harold and she's chewing him out for trying to steal the locket."

"Either way, Harold's got to be stopped," Peter said. "Wish me luck, everybody."

* * *

"Wow, and I barely know how to ride a horse," Peter said.

"Boy, you said it," Micky told him. "That was the quickest joust I think I've ever seen."

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"Harold knocked you off the horse, and you hit your head on the stone pavement," Mike said. "Knocked you out cold."

"But what about the locket, and Gwen?" Peter asked. "What happened to them?"

"Well, it turns out that Mysterious Marlowe had been using Harold to steal money from people," Davy said. "She would give him instructions by pretending to see his future, and then she told him to steal the locket so that he would get caught. I guess it worked, but she got caught too."

"She said something really weird though, on her way to the cop car," Micky said, frowning. "She said 'Remember your dream,' all creepy like. It didn't make any sense."

At the words, a flash of memory jolted through Peter, he had been dreaming while he was out.

"Oh, that's scary!" He said, eyes wide. "Guys, I just remembered, I had this really trippy dream while I was out. That must've been what she was talking about! She told you my future, knowing you would give me the message!"

"Oh, come on, Peter, really," Mike said. "There's no such thing as a fortune teller!"

"What was your dream about?" Davy asked.

"Well," Peter started. "We lived in this medieval village, and I was out of work..."

And so Peter relayed his dream to them, and it wasn't long before the four of them were laughing hysterically at all he remembered. And for years afterward, whenever any of them would reference Gwen or Harold or the locket, no one was quite sure which version of the tale they were talking about.

Peter learned an important lesson, however. He learned that a head injury, a medieval fair, and pain medication created really trippy dreams.


	25. Why do they call it a crayon, anyway?

_Author's Notes: This chapter is based off season 2 episode 19, The Monkees Paw, one of my favorites. I tried to focus on Micky's thoughts, since he couldn't say anything during the main part of this episode. Also, a quick note, I love the Marx Brothers, so the first time I saw this episode, I was dying with laughter. XD_

* * *

You would not believe how annoying it was to not be able to talk.

Seriously, Micky would have screamed if he'd been able to. As it was, he was trying to joke it off, but without being able to actually joke, he pantomimed an argument with Mr. Schneider, ending with him hitting the dummy in the face with the Monkey's paw that had started all this trouble.

The others stood and watched, trying to figure out what had made him stop talking. As if it needed much figuring out. He had accidentally wished that he would be able to stop talking, and it had come true. He would have explained this by now, only... he couldn't.

"You know, he hasn't said a thing in twelve hours," Davy commented as the three of them stood next to the giant Indian statue. Twelve hours!? Had it only been twelve hours? To Micky, it felt like an eternity. All the jokes he hadn't been able to tell, all the things he hadn't been able to say, gone forever.

Twelve hours was a new record. The last time he had been unable to talk, he had been in elementary school, and had accidentally swallowed a live snail. Well, accidentally wasn't really the right word. More like he'd been dared to swallow a live snail, and had grudgingly obliged. He hadn't talked for ten minutes then, and it had still driven him crazy. This was a million times worse.

"That's it," Mike was saying. "In twelve hours, he forgot how to talk, I mean, anybody could forget how to talk in twelve hours!"

Mike was just grasping at straws now. He prided himself on not being superstitious, but sometimes he could take this to a fault and blatantly ignore supernatural things that happened because of his belief that such things did not exist. Such things as a magical monkey's paw that granted wishes and gave bad luck.

"Well then, it's simple, all we do is teach him to talk," Peter said, ready to try just about anything to get Micky's voice back.

"How?" Davy joked, raising his hand to match the Indian's hand.

"What did you say?" Mike asked, looking up at him in amusement. Davy started laughing himself as he repeated the joke.

Micky laughed too. Well, he tried to, that is. When no sound came out, he quickly changed to not-groaning, and put his hand up to his head. This was driving him crazy.

The others all got their things together and sat him down in a chair facing a chalkboard, and began teaching him all sorts of crazy things. He tried to tell them to skip to the talking part, but had to remain silent.

Finally, it seemed, they came to the part of the lesson about speech.

"Now, Micky, I want you to repeat after me," Mike said. "What is that?" He held up a crayon. "It's a pencil," he said. "Right?"

Micky nodded, determined to show his annoyance at the situation in any way he could, since he couldn't voice it.

"Come on, Mick, say it," Mike prompted. "Pencil."

Micky tried, he really did. But no words came out.

"Pencil," Mike repeated, as Davy and Peter walked over to Micky and stood on either side of him, repeating the word "pencil" over and over again, trying to show him how it was done. Micky knew how it was done, the sound just didn't come. It was as if the monkey's paw had removed his vocal cords.

"Hey, show him the P," Davy suggested. Peter, desperate for anything to work, started making popping sounds with his mouth, repeatedly. Micky tried, nothing came out.

"Pencil," Davy said a few more times before turning to Mike as Micky wiped the side of his face with his hand and tried to get Peter to stop making the popping sound, giving him a look since he couldn't out and out say "Peter, knock it off."

"Oh, it's no good," Davy said. "He won't be able to sing tonight, he can't even say pencil!"

"Do you suppose it has anything to do with the fact that this is a crayon?" Mike asked.

"Now, crayon I can say," Micky quipped, stopping the timer for his record of twelve hours. For a second, he was surprised. Maybe the curse wore off after twelve hours, and he could talk again!'

"Come on, pencil," Mike said again.

Micky tried, but once again, nothing came out. He felt his hopes come crashing down around him, as Davy continued to try and get him to say pencil.

"He can't say anything but crayon," Peter said sadly, looking down at him.

Micky once again didn't groan. They needed to figure out a way to reverse this curse before he ended up in the mad house, forever silently shouting and quietly screaming, unable to say anything but crayon. Well, if that was the only thing he could say, than by golly, he was going to say it! They would have to muzzle him to keep him from yelling crayon at every possible opportunity. They would have to shut him in the asylum and lock him up, and he would scream crayon as loud as he could.

The others would come and visit him, and they would say "Hi, Micky," and he would smile, nod, and say "Crayon!" The nurses would ask him how he felt, and he would smile and say "Crayon" if he was feeling good, and he would frown and say "Crayon" if he was feeling badly.

Somebody would ask him what he wanted for dinner, and he would say "Crayon." Then, when his meal was brought to him, he would have to try and tell them that he really didn't want to eat crayons for dinner, but all he would be able to do would be point at the crayons and say "Crayon," and whoever brought it to him would be confused and they would say "Yes, I brought your crayons, just like you asked," and he would shake his head and repeat "Crayon," which would just confuse whoever brought his dinner even more.

He didn't want to live the rest of his life unable to say anything other than crayon.

* * *

The psychiatrist was no help at all. Holding up an ink-blot picture, he asked Micky what it appeared to seem to be to him.

Micky tried to tell him that the picture looked like a group of psychedelic Christmas angels, but... Do I even have to say it this time? Nothing came out.

Mike quietly commented that the picture looked like a bunch of flowers. Now that he mentioned it, Micky could see that.

The psychiatrist, however, merely scolded him for talking, and then claimed that the picture was obviously a bunny and a chicken. Micky took a second look. It really looked nothing like a bunny and a chicken.

Peter decided it looked like a tomato and ketchup stain. Well, there were the red parts, but how did he account for the yellows and the purples? Besides, a stain was way too close to what the ink blots actually were. You had to look beyond the literal and try to see a new picture beyond it.

But the psychiatrist twitched in annoyance and insisted that it was a bunny and a chicken.

Davy put in his two cents that to him, it looked like birds dancing. Silly Davy. Birds didn't dance. They flew. Although, now that he took another look, if he tilted his head and squinted his eyes, he could see how it could look like dancing birds.

The doctor suddenly went berserk, he yelled that it was a bunny and a chicken, threatened to hit Mike, and screamed at Micky to get out of the chair.

Micky all too gladly obeyed and rushed across the room over to where the others stood, watching as the doctor lowered himself onto the backless couch, and began talking to himself that it was a bunny and a chicken.

* * *

Finally, after they'd been fired from the club in an attempt to work Micky's silence into the act (Once again putting Mike's novelty Groucho Marx glasses to use), they went back to Mendrake the Magician, and this time he agreed to help them.

As it turned out, the way you reversed the curse on the monkey's paw was to sell it to someone else. So they convinced their mean ex-boss to buy it from them.

* * *

Ah, the freedom! Micky could talk again, he could say anything he wanted. As he talked on and on throughout the next hour, he began to get the sneaking suspicion that the others were beginning to wish he would return to his silence. But he wasn't going to. Uh-uh, no way. They should just be grateful he wasn't screaming crayon at them.


	26. Questions Not Yet Answered

_Author's notes: This episode is based off season 2 episode 20, The Devil and Peter Tork. One quick note; I am not trying to shove my religion down anyone's throat, although I am a Christian and proud of it. I simply figured that if the Devil was real in this chapter, God would be real as well. If you don't like it, feel free to send me hate-reviews. I don't mind in the slightest._

_If you haven't already, I highly recommend reading the fic Red Sky: Take Warning, by Crystal Rose of Pollux, in which Mr. Zero returns to get his revenge on the boys. I don't exactly mention it in this fic, as it hasn't happened in the Monkees' time line, but it's a very good read none the less._

_Also, I would like to say that my prayers are with all the families in Newtown, Connecticut who lost loved ones in yesterday's shooting. This is a horrible thing to have happen, especially right before Christmas, and I pray that God will give them peace and joy throughout this hard time. Nobody knows how much time they have left, these children had their entire lives ahead of them. I pray that God will spread his Love over that community, and the lives of those children will be remembered in the years to come._

* * *

Peter didn't trust himself to sleep that night. Lying awake in the dark and listening to Davy's quiet breathing (and the occasional snore) from across the room, he could barely close his eyes for fear that when he opened them, he would find himself gone, lost, finished.

His heart was still beating quickly, he could feel every precious thump that was keeping him alive. He was breathing faster than he usually did, too, and with every breath he took, he sent a small prayer of thanks to God for giving him one more breath at all.

He had never really believed much in God before. Not that he particularly disbelieved either, it was just something he never thought about. Life was here, now, he could think about stuff like that when he was older. He had plenty of time to figure out just what he did and did not believe.

But today had scared him more than he would admit, even to himself.

Today, it had been much too close.

Mr. Zero, the man who had sold Peter a harp for just the promise to come and work for him had showed up at the pad, to collect the debt, and had revealed himself to be the Devil, and Peter's promise had amounted to little more than selling his soul.

Peter had been duped by con-men before, but that was a new low for him.

And of course the other Monkees had come to bail him out, and Mike had finally gotten him off the hook with his speech about the power of Love. But the fact remained that Peter had sold his soul to the Devil, albeit unknowingly, and now he was afraid that even though the contract fell through, even though the Devil had been thwarted for now, he would be back with a vengeance, because that's what the Devil did.

He tried to trip you up and make you believe you needed his power, that he wanted to help you. And then he would wait until you were defenseless and swoop down for the strike. To steal, to kill, and to destroy. That's what the Devil was all about. And Peter had fallen for it.

If it weren't for Mike, he would be in Hell right now, forever burning and screaming while Mr. Zero looked on and laughed at the object of his cruelty.

If it weren't for Mike... No. As grateful as he was to Mike for making the speech, he had to give credit where credit was due. If it weren't for Love, he would be finished.

Love... that abstract thing that people liked to believe in. That idea, that one hope, that's what had truly saved him. And if all the old things his gran had used to tell him were true, he knew where that Love had come from.

But that was the real question, that was why Peter couldn't sleep tonight. If Love had truly saved him... why?

He already had admitted to himself that he'd never really believed much in God. But if the Devil was real, than God must be real too. And if God was real, and God was Love, he had saved Peter, a man who had never believed in him. Why?

Deciding that lying around in bed wouldn't do any good at all, Peter got up and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. He turned on one lamp so he could see, and then he went into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. Davy had said once that nothing helped insomnia like a nice cup of tea, so Peter was willing to try it, and as he heated some water on the hot plate, his mind strayed back to his previous train of thought.

Why would somebody you didn't know save you from anything? For all intents and purposes, he had been saved by a complete stranger, someone he'd never met. No, even worse. He'd been saved by someone he'd scoffed at before. Why?

Pouring the hot water into a cup, Peter was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the cup was getting full until it spilled over onto his hand. With a slight yelp, he dropped the cup, which fell to the ground with a crash, pieces of porcelain flying everywhere.

Peter stared at the mess for a second before grabbing a towel and hastily trying to soak up the tea, which would have been easier if there wasn't a bunch of porcelain shards all over the floor. A sharp pain shot through his hand.

"Ouch," Peter muttered, pulling it away and seeing a little bit of blood. He must've cut himself.

"Peter?"

Peter turned to the stairs and saw Mike leaning over the railing, looking down at him sleepily. "What are you doing up?" He asked.

Peter chuckled nervously. "I, uh... couldn't sleep, so I was trying to make tea... I dropped the cup. Did I wake you?"

Mike sighed, looking at the mess, then looked at Peter's hand. "Did you cut yourself on the porcelain?" He asked, wide awake now.

Peter nodded sheepishly as Mike came down the stairs towards him, watching the floor so as not to step on any shards himself.

Grabbing a clean towel, Mike got it wet and wiped the blood off Peter's hand. "It's not very deep," He said, examining the cut. "You should be fine. I think we've got a band-aid in the bathroom."

"Thanks," Peter said, taking the towel and holding it to the cut as Mike began carefully picking up the porcelain shards out of the tea. "...Mike?" He said.

"Yeah, Shotgun, what is it?" Mike asked.

"Do... do you believe in God?" Peter asked hesitantly.

Mike let out a dry laugh. "Kinda have to, after today," He said.

Peter didn't say anything. Mike noticed.

"That's what this is about, huh?" He asked quietly, looking up at Peter, who nodded.

"It's just, I can't figure it out," he said. "Why would he do it? Save me, I mean. I never did anything for him. I wasn't even sure I believed in him until today. Why would he save me?"

Mike stood up. "Look man," he said. "I can't pretend to have all the answers. I didn't believe in him either. The important thing is, we made it. We don't have to worry about that anymore. It's over. Just don't sign any more contracts, and we can figure all this out some other time."

"But... but what if we don't have as much time as we thought?" Peter asked. "What if something were to happen tomorrow, and it was too late to think about it?"

"Peter, nothing's gonna happen tomorrow," Mike said.

Peter sighed. "But what if something did?" He asked. "Something almost happened tonight, Mike. I almost didn't make it this time. What if next time, I'm not so lucky? The Power of Love saved me this time. What'll happen if next time something happens, it doesn't come because I never took the time to think about it?"

"Man, I don't know!" Mike said. "I guess you just gotta ask yourself if you believe or not. Now, Peter, I'm not all that big on superstition and all that stuff. I really don't know what to tell you. This is something you've gotta decide for yourself, I can't make this decision for you. All I can say is if God is real, and if he's the one who saved you tonight, then he must have had a reason for helping us out back there. So don't keep looking over your shoulder like that!"

Peter, who hadn't realized how on edge he really was, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," he said. "I just keep feeling like Mr. Zero's gonna show up to take me away again."

"Yeah, well stop it," Mike said. "I'm not saying I believe in him, but for whatever reason, God decided it wasn't time for you to go yet. So you can rest easy, Mr. Zero isn't coming back any time soon."

"But he will come back, won't he?" Peter asked, voicing his worry.

Mike sighed. "I don't know, Shotgun," he said. "Maybe he will. But not tonight he won't. If anything, he's got to retreat and strategize."

Mike instantly regretted the words as Peter stiffened visibly at the idea of the Devil plotting against them. "I'm not saying he is," He amended quickly. "All I'm saying is you can go to sleep without worrying about the Devil coming to get you. You don't need to lose sleep over this. Now, go put a band-aid on, and then try and get some sleep."

Peter smiled, feeling a bit better. "Okay," he said. "Thanks, Mike. For everything."

Mike smiled back, recognizing the deeper meaning of Peter's thanks. "Any time, Peter," he said. "Just don't sign any more contracts, got it?"

Peter nodded and began heading for the bathroom.

"Oh, and Pete?" Mike said. Peter turned around to where Mike was now carefully mopping up the tea. "Next time you decide to make a hot beverage in the middle of the night, try and be more careful."

Peter smiled. "Sure thing, Mike," he said.

As he found the band-aid and carefully placed it over his cut, Peter looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He still had plenty of questions, yes, but Mike was right. This was a decision he and he alone could make. And while it was true you never knew how much time you had, that just made him even more resolved to live his life to the fullest now.

Yawning, Peter suddenly realized how very tired he really was. Deciding that he could search for answers in the morning, he went up to bed. Davy was still asleep in his bed across the room, the crash hadn't woken him up. As Peter slipped under the covers of his own bed, he marveled once again how precious life was. You could have years ahead of you, you could be the youngest person on the planet, and life could be taken away in an instant.

Peter breathed in, and he breathed out. And as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he sent one last thanks to God for the sound of his calming heartbeat. For whatever reason, like Mike had said, Peter's life was spared today. He was determined to make it count.


	27. Fading Through the Door: Part 1

_Author's notes: This chapter is based on Crystal Rose of Pollux's chapter of the same name, and will also have several parts. They will focus on Peter and Micky's side of the story. All diologue was written by Crystal Rose of Pollux, and some of the descriptive passages as well. Enjoy!_

* * *

Peter was sitting on the couch, thinking about writing a new song. He didn't know what it would be about yet, but he had a few key words floating around in his head, and he was humming a little tune, trying to find something that sounded good, when there was a knock at the door.

Davy stood up and walked over to the door, opening the peephole and standing directly underneath it. Peter couldn't help but smile at the sight. He was secretly convinced that Davy always did that as a joke just to amuse them, and he was sure that whenever Davy was alone in the pad, he answered the door without even bothering to check who it was.

Either that or he got a stool.

Davy opened the door to reveal none other than Millie Rudnick. Well, she wasn't a Rudnick anymore, having married Larry the moving guy. But all the Monkees still thought of her as a Rudnick.

"Hey," Davy said cheerily. "How's it going?"

"Oh, it's going great, Davy—just great!" Millie said, grinning. "Hey, is Mike home?"

"Mike?" Davy asked. "He and Micky are out getting our meal fixings; it's just Peter and me right now—"

"Hi!" Peter called out, smiling at Millie. She reminded him of Micky's mother, mixed with Aunt Franny and, for some reason, a criminal boss known as "the Big Man," or, Bessie Kowalski, as she was known by her fans(?).

"Hi, Peter," Millie replied, smiling over Davy's shoulder at him before turning back to Davy. "Well, can you two boys do me a favor?" She said. "I need you to give this number to Mike."

She handed Davy a piece of paper.

"What's this for?" Davy asked, looking down at it.

"Well…" Millie sighed. "You know that time I was staying here with you boys? I asked Mike if there was anything I could do for him. And he just looked at me with those brown eyes of his and asked me to make him a success."

"Oh…" Davy said quietly as Peter smiled. That seemed like something Mike would say.

"Larry and I are helping this fella move to Phoenix," Mille said, pointing at somethig that was written on the piece of paper. "He's a music producer, and he's getting together some country-western singers and songwriters. He's going to throw a little talent show for them, and he'll sign on the winner to a recording contract."

Peter's eyes grew wide at this bit of news. A thrill of happiness for Mike went down his spine. "Wow," He said. "Mike would win that hands down!"

"You're not kidding," Millie said. "That's why I want him to give our client a call; he said he's more than willing to have Mike come along to Phoenix with us and take part in the talent show."

Davy stared at the piece of paper and then looked up to Millie.

"Right," he said. "We'll tell Mike as soon as he gets back."

Millie blinked.

"Is something wrong, Davy?"

"No, I'm fine," he said with a smile. "Hey, thanks for this; I know Mike will appreciate it!"

Millie smiled back and left with a cheery wave, but Davy's smile faded as he closed the door after her.

"She's right; something's wrong with you," Peter said, folding his arms. "Davy, come on! I thought you'd be happy for Mike!" A terrible thought entered unbidden into Peter's mind. "…You're not jealous, are you?"

"Of course I'm not jealous!" Davy said, much to Peter's relief. "Mike's our leader, and goodness knows that he's been wanting a chance like this for as long as I've known him! I'm happy for him; I really am!"

But Peter wasn't that easily satisfied. He'd known Davy for a long time, although admittedly not as long as Mike had known him, and he knew when something was wrong. "Then… why the gloom?" He prompted.

"If he wins this thing, he gets that contract," Davy explained. "He'd probably have to move down to Phoenix. And if that producer only wants country-western music, he won't want us there to complicate things."

"Oh," Peter said. That made sense, the rest of the Monkees weren't much into the country-western sound, if they were along, they could hurt Mike's chances... His eyes widened as he realized what that meant. "Oh…" He said quietly.

"Exactly," Davy said.

Peter picked at his bass, the happy little tune he'd been thinking of taking a more solemn tone as he thought. If Mike got this contract and moved to Phoenix, and the three other Monkees stayed here in the Malibu and LA area, that would be it for their band.

No more Monkees, he thought with a jolt.

"What happens now?" he asked, after some time.

Davy sat down on the backless couch, staring at the paper.

"We have to tell him," he said. "Whether we like it or not. Mike has done so much for us; if the time has come that he needs to look after himself and…" He swallowed hard, and Peter almost wanted to cover the younger boy's mouth, he felt sure he knew what Davy was about to say. "…Leave us behind, then, as his friends, we owe it to him to say goodbye and good luck." He sighed. "I promised him that I would do my best to help him achieve his dream of being a success. If that means letting him go, then I have no choice but to keep my word and do it."

"I always thought that if we became successes, it'd be together," Peter said, feeling a lump begin to grow in the back of his throat. "That's the way I wanted it…"

"That's the way I wanted it, too," Davy said. "But I don't like the idea of the three of us dragging down Mike. He feels obligated to stay with us and help us—so he never gets a chance to try to chase his own dream. I want him to be the success that he wants to be. Mike deserves that."

"I deserve what, now?" Mike asked, as he opened the front door in time to hear that last bit.

Peter started, feeling his ears grow red as he tried to keep from crying out "MIKE, DON'T LEAVE US!" Like he so desperately wanted to.

"Millie Rudnick was just here," Davy said. "She wanted us to give you the phone number of a music producer going to Phoenix…" With that, Davy started to tell about the whole thing as Mike and Micky both listened in awe.

"Wow, Man," Micky sighed when Davy was finished. "Mike, you'd be a shoe-in to win and get the contract!"

"Just like you've always wanted," Davy said as Peter looked at Micky. His friend hadn't realized what Mike's success would mean to the rest of the band, and he was trying to let Micky into the loop with his expression, but Micky was missing it.

Mike stared eagerly down at the piece of paper.

"I'd hate to ditch you guys," he said. "But if y'all think you can get along without me for a few days—"

"Hey, we'll be fine!" Micky said, as Peter tried not to let out a small sob. Mike was already talking about leaving. "You go for this thing!" Micky said happily.

Mike didn't need telling twice; he was on the phone in an instant, calling up the producer and introducing himself.

"Isn't this great?" Micky said, watching him. "Our Mike's gonna get his big break at last—a recording contract! …Hey, what's with you two?"

"What happens when Mike wins that recording contract?" Davy asked, rhetorically.

"Well, he'll become famous, he'll go on tours and spend all his time with the…" Micky trailed off as the sudden realization struck him.

The three turned their attention to Mike, who was singing a few bars of "Oklahoma Backroom Dancer" over the phone. The grin on his face, though, was a wonderful sight to behold—they couldn't deny that.

"So… what do we do?" Micky said.

"Like I told Peter," Davy said. "We let him go, and wish him well."

Micky blinked, but nodded. Further discussion was halted as Mike got off the phone, grinning ear to ear and talking a mile a minute.

"Hey, fellas, I'm heading to Phoenix tomorrow morning; they're getting an early start tomorrow, so I'll probably be gone by the time you guys wake up, but the groceries are here, so y'all should be just fine. I'll be riding with them, so I'll leave the Monkeemobile here in case you need it. I'm just going to grab my guitar and some clothes and fine-tune some of these compositions tonight…"

He bounded up the stairs two at a time, still rambling.

"He hasn't even got the contract yet, and he's over the moon," Micky said. "Man, it'll be worth being a trio to see him so happy."

"I guess so," Peter said, feeling guilty. Here he was, being selfish. Mike had the chance to live out his dream and be a real success, just like he'd always wanted, and Peter was upset because of it. Maybe... was _he _jealous?

No, he didn't think so. As much as he wanted the band to do well, being a success hadn't ever really been his dream. He was here because he liked to play music and he wanted to help Micky be a success.

Maybe he was upset because it felt like Mike was leaving them forever. Yeah, that was probably it. He considered Mike one of his best friends, he'd known him for around two years now, and it felt like Mike didn't even care.

Peter banished that thought as quickly as it had come. Of course Mike cared about them, and it was wrong for Peter to think otherwise, after everything Mike had done for them.

"Hey, Davy, you remember this?!" Mike said, appearing at the top of the stairs, pulling out the blue-star-studded white Stetson that he'd been wearing when Micky and Peter had first met him and Davy. "I got the whole suit up here, just waiting to be used at that Phoenix show!"

"Of course I remember it," Davy said, his happiness sounding forced. "I still have the Royal Guardsman's uniform you gave me, too."

"Well, I gotta thank you again for this; it'll be perfect!" Mike said, disappearing back into the room.

Peter felt like he couldn't stand this stillness for much longer, and judging by Micky's fidgeting on the couch, he couldn't either. So it wasn't long before he, Micky and Davy all began to make dinner, even though Peter didn't have much of an appetite anymore. He just needed something to keep him busy.

When dinner was ready, Mike took a break from his packing to eat something, although his mind was clearly everywhere but on the food he was eating. Which was good, because even though they tried to act as normal as usual, Peter couldn't bring himself to eat much, and he didn't want to worry Mike if he noticed.

After dinner, Mike continued packing, saying that he would probably be gone before they woke up the next morning.

Micky couldn't take sitting around doing nothing, so he went to bed fairly early. Peter stayed down longer, simply because he didn't want to let Mike out of his sight. He had this unpleasant feeling in his gut that if he so much as blinked, Mike would disappear and never come home again.

Finally, however, Peter decided he was done fighting back tears and decided to head up to bed.

He hesitated on the stairs, feeling like he should give Mike one last farewell. Peter had always liked that word. Farewell didn't mean goodbye, it meant good luck, and there was a certain amount of hope in the word, as if the speaker were saying "until next time."

But Peter just couldn't bring himself to say anything at all, so after opening and shutting his mouth for a moment, he turned and went into the room he and Davy shared.

He got dressed in his pajamas and then crawled under the covers, making sure he was facing away from the door and Davy's bed. Then, all the emotion he had been keeping pent up for the past few hours broke through his defenses, and he cried silently until he fell asleep.


	28. Fading Through the Door: Part 2

_Author's note: This chapter, like the previous one of the same name, is based on the story by Crystal Rose of Pollux, taking the veiwpoint of Micky and Peter. All of the Dialogue was written by her, and a few of the descriptive scenes as well._

* * *

When Peter woke up, Mike was gone, just like he'd said he would be. Peter felt a heaviness in his heart that he felt would be there for the rest of his life, but he tried to ignore it and put on a brave face for Davy and Micky.

The day seemed to drag on forever, nobody felt like doing anything. There just didn't seem to be a point without Mike around. And while Micky busied his hands by doing all of his laundry and Peter picked up around the pad, Davy just sat around doing nothing.

Micky and Peter had both tried to get Davy to do something, but he couldn't be cheered up. It had them worried.

"He's acting just like Mike was the time he got scammed," Peter said, softly.

"Do you think my Cagney impression will cheer him up?" Micky asked.

"I don't think so," the blond said. Something like that would cheer _him_ up, but it was Davy he was worried about. "Right now, the only thing that'll cheer him up is—"

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Davy vaulted over the backless couch and answered it before Micky or Peter had a chance to even take a step towards it.

"Hello?!" he asked, eagerly, as Micky and Peter waited breathlessly. Finally, Davy managed a grin. "Mike!" He exclaimed.

"That," Peter finished his sentence, grinning also.

He and Micky now crowded around Davy, trying to hear what Mike was saying.

"You should see the size of this motel room, Tiny!" they heard. "And the furnishings!"

"I'm sure it's wonderful," the English boy said. "And we're glad you're enjoying it!"

"So, are you getting ready for that show?" Micky asked.

"Working on it," Mike answered. "I already made the solo adjustments last night; I just need to practice up a bit. The show is tomorrow night, but I've got time to talk to you guys. So, what're you guys up to?"

"Oh, we're… keeping busy," Davy lied, prompting Peter and Micky to give him a look. "You don't need to worry about us, Mike; we're handling things just fine!"

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," the Texan said. "Because I'll be staying in Phoenix for a few more weeks. Barty said that he's going to arrange a few gigs for me while I'm down here—going to get started making a name for myself."

Peter felt his heart drop as he and Micky exchanged glances..

"_A few __**weeks**_?" Micky mouthed, silently.

"Hello?" Mike called over the line. "You guys still there?"

"Yeah, we're still here," Davy said, recovering from his shock. "That's great, Mike. Really great. You'll be fine; I just know it!"

"Yeah, you'll knock 'em dead!" Peter agreed, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could.

"You'll steal a few hearts before your gigs are over, I'll bet!" Micky added, although not nearly as excitedly as he would have been any other time.

"Well, I hope you're right," Mike said. "But will you three be okay without me for a few weeks? I didn't realize that I'd be staying that long…"

"We'll be fine," Davy said, and Peter studied Davy. Somehow, he felt Davy would be far from fine.

"Glad to hear that," Mike said, sounding relieved. "If Mr. Babbitt comes by, my share of the rent is up in my room; it's under the photo album on the shelf. Oh, I'll give you guys the number of this motel room; call me if something comes up, okay? Or, you know… if you just wanna talk for a bit, you can call, too."

"You bet we will," Peter promised, as Micky wrote the number down. "But, for now, you'd better get practicing for your shows!"

"Right; I'll talk to y'all later!" Mike said, and he hung up after they had all exchanged goodbyes.

Micky sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Weeks," he repeated. "He's going to be so used to that kind of life—being a solo star—he won't ever want to come back to amateurs like us…"

"This is how it ends, then?" Davy asked, quietly. "I mean, is there even any point in trying to keep this thing together?"

Peter suddenly felt panicked. Was Davy talking about giving up on the Monkees? "Well, I can think of one point," He said, desperately grasping at straws. "We need the money."

"Yeah, that's one point," Micky agreed. "Unfortunately, it's a pretty darn good one. We've got to keep ourselves fed."

"Then I'll do what Mike would do," Peter said, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. Now it sounded as if he was already trying to replace Mike's place as their undisputed leader. But, it was too late to take the words back now.

"I'll go search for a gig opportunity," He said, taking a handful of change from the petty cash jar. "This should get enough newspapers to find a potential gig or two! Just leave this to me!"

Again, kicking himself for the way he'd worded things, he left the pad and walked down to the news-stand on the corner.

He wasn't trying to replace Mike, he wasn't. Mike was their leader, their figurative big brother, he was always there to take care of them, to help them when they needed it. In fact, Peter owed his life and soul to Mike.

He gave an involuntary shudder as he thought of how much of a mess he'd gotten into in the past. How on earth was he supposed to get through life without Mike? He could barely get through a shopping trip without Mike to bail him out of his mistakes.

Reaching the newspaper stand, Peter stood and looked at all the newspapers, although he wasn't really looking. He was just thinking.

He could never replace Mike. He couldn't even _try_ to replace Mike. But he would do what he could until Mike got back.

That made him feel better. He wasn't trying to replace his friend, he was just... filling in for a few weeks.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Peter purchased a few papers, but instead of returning to the pad right away, he looked around at the town and decided to go for a walk, try and clear his thoughts.

As he walked, he thought about what Davy had said earlier, about there not being any further point to their act. It had Peter worried, sure, it was bad enough to face the prospect of their foursome becoming a threesome for a few weeks. But Davy was acting very strange about being a trio. In fact, he hadn't even mentioned it at all.

What would happen if Davy decided that he didn't like being a threesome? What would happen if Mike won the record deal and moved on to be a solo star? Would Davy still be willing to stick with the band?

Peter had the most horrible feeling that if Mike never came back, Davy would give up on them too, and that thought made Peter feel awful.

He already felt like he was losing one of his best friends. He wasn't sure if he could handle losing another one.

* * *

Micky sighed and after staring at the back door for a moment, headed down towards the beach. Davy had made it very clear that he wanted to be alone, and Micky was all for giving him some privacy, but he hated to leave the younger man all alone, especially now.

Not that he was worried for Davy's safety, no, he was worried that with Mike's absence, Davy would be depressed and maybe even sulky, and would start to do some deep thinking.

And the result of that deep thinking was what worried Micky.

He had no idea what his younger friend could be planning, and that was part of what scared him.

But, he couldn't sit around and play nanny to his British friend. That was Mike's job.

Micky sighed. Mike. Mike would know what to do, Mike would know how to fix it. But Mike wasn't here, and that was the problem in the first place.

There had been plenty of times in the past when Mike had been busy and had been unable to help them out, but this was the first time he had done something that really threatened to break up the group.

It made Micky mad, to be honest. Davy was right, it wasn't fair to Mike for them to expect him to stay with them forever. But Micky didn't care about what was fair at the moment. Micky wanted what was best for himself, and what was best for him was the Monkees.

Sure, they weren't exactly successful. Sure, they only ate dinner when it was absolutely necessary. Sure, they had Mr. Babbit showing up at the doorstep all the time to collect a late rent they could never quite afford to pay. But didn't friendship count for something?

Micky stopped and sat down on the beach and stared out at the ocean. Davy's favorite song, _I Wanna Be Free,_ began playing in his mind, and he sighed. He never really cared for that song, if you really truly loved someone, you should be willing to make a commitment.

But regardless of his views on relationships, he understood what it was saying. If you love something, let it go. If what took a friend away from you was best for the friend it was taking, you should let that friend go for it.

But understanding the concept didn't make it hurt any less.


	29. Fading Through the Door: Part 3

_Author's note: This chapter, like parts 1 and 2, is based on Crystal Rose of Pollux's story arc of the same name, and, as such, some of the dialogue and a few of the descriptive passages, as well, belong to her. I overlap her parts 3 and 4, simply because there wasn't much to write about for Micky and Peter's side of part 3, and I wanted the chapter to be a bit longer. So, without any further ado, Fading Through the Door Part 3! Enjoy!_

* * *

Looking at his watch, Micky realized that he'd been sitting on the beach for about an hour. He usually didn't stay in one place as long as that, but he hadn't wanted to go walking and stray too far from the pad, so he had simply sat and done nothing.

Standing up, he ran the short distance to the pad and up the back stairs. Opening the back door, he saw Peter come in from the opposite side, holding a few newspapers.

Davy was just stepping down from the last stair, so all three of them were entering the living room at the same time.

Well, Micky was in the kitchen, but it amounted to the same thing.

"You feeling any better?" Micky asked Davy. He hoped so; Davy didn't seem as down in the dumps, and there appeared to be a new fire and spark in his eyes—but that wasn't always a good sign, as previous experience had shown.

"I'm a lot better," Davy said, nodding at Micky. "More than that, I know what I have to do."

"Of course you do; we keep on singing—that's what!" Peter exclaimed, waving the newspaper in his hands. "We've got some advertisements for gigs here; we can just go through these."

Davy paused, and he glanced at the papers in Peter's hands before he looked up at Peter himself. "Actually, Peter," he said. "I think you and Micky should handle those on your own. I'll buy my own paper and look for gigs myself."

Micky frowned. What? Why would Davy buy extra papers? As if they wouldn't already have to pick up the slack to afford Mike's share of the rent, if he didn't come back.

"I… I told you, I just got a paper," Peter was stammering. "You can look through it with us, you know. All of us can…"

"No, Peter," Davy said. "I meant that I want to look for solo gigs."

"Wha…?" Micky asked, his eyes going wide. Davy was quitting the band!? Why!?

"Davy, not you, too!" Peter said, shaking his head, slowly, though he had known that was what Davy was going to say.

"I'm sorry, but… Well, I got to thinking and I realized that there's a lot out there that I want to see," Davy said. "I think it's time I chased after my dream, too. But we'll keep in touch, I promise!"

He grabbed a handful of money from the petty cash jar.

"I'd hate to steal any potential gigs from you two, so I'll let you look over that paper and go out and buy my own right now—a different paper. I'll pay back this money later," he promised.

"No, don't bother," Peter said, softly. "This place will always be your home. Don't you ever forget that."

"I won't," Davy promised, managing a smile at the others. "And thanks for understanding."

Peter didn't understand. Not really. Why couldn't Davy, or even Mike, see? But, they had to be able to make their own choices.

Micky just stood there and stammered unintelligibly as Davy waved to them and headed out the door.

"How…? Why…? But…!" he said, his arms extended towards the door in disbelief. "Pete, what just happened here!?"

Peter looked down at his feet for a moment, and then looked at the newspaper still in his hands.

"I think… our band just broke up."

"...No," Micky said with a chuckle. "No, we must've... misunderstood or something, we can't- Davy would never- I mean, we're- But what about d-d-dum... Here we come... walking down the street..."

"I don't like it either," Peter said, frowning and sitting down. "But... That's it. The Monkees are over. I knew it was too good to last..."

Peter trailed off and put his head in his hands. Micky sat quietly for a minute, too stunned to think. After awhile, he put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Pete," he said. "Are you crying?"

"No," Peter said, looking up. "Just... sad, I guess. I'd hoped we'd never break up the band."

"No kidding," Micky said. "Man, if only Mike hadn't gotten that gig. None of this would have happened... Hey!"

He jumped up, startling Peter. "Micky!" The blonde said. "Don't scare me like that!"

"Sorry," Micky said absently. "But I think I know how we can fix this!"

"Really?" Peter asked, standing up. "How?"

"We'll call Mike!" Micky exclaimed excitedly. "Once he hears about how much we need him, he'll be sure to come back, and he'll talk some sense into Davy, too! Then they'll both move back in and we'll be the Monkees again!"

Peter shook his head. "We can't do that," he said.

Micky looked angry. "Why not?" He demanded.

"Because, that would be selfish of us," Peter explained with a sigh. "We can't do that to Mike, this has been his dream for longer than we've even known him! What kind of friends would we be if we told him that he had to give up his dream because we wanted him all to ourselves? And the same goes for Davy!"

"So what, you're just going to give up on them both?" Micky snapped.

"You know that's not what I meant, Micky," Peter said miserably. "I'm just saying that whatever they decide to do, it's got to be their choice, not ours. Remember that time that Davy's grandfather came from England and almost made Davy go back with him, all because Davy wasn't a success like his grandfather wanted him to be?"

Micky blinked. "Yeah," he said. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well," Peter said. "Davy didn't want to go back to England. But his grandfather loved him too much, and almost lost him by hanging on too tight. Is that what you want to be like?"

Micky considered this for a moment. "No," he finally agreed. "No, I don't want to be like that."

"Neither do I," Peter said. "That's why we can't just demand that Mike and Davy come back. If we really want what's best for them, we have to let them go. Besides, they said they'd be in touch. And as of right now, Davy still lives here, even. Just because we're no longer band-mates doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Micky said. "Let's get working on those ads in the paper. Wouldn't want to be evicted!"

* * *

But Davy didn't live in the pad for very long. It seemed that the band had been holding him back; after only a few solo gigs in dinner clubs, he had been discovered by a producer who loved him so much, he wasted no time in whisking him off to Anaheim, leaving Peter and Micky alone.

For the first day after Davy left, Peter and Micky spent most of their time the way Davy had the day after Mike left. That is to say, the sat around and did nothing.

Finally, Micky had had enough silence.

"Hey, Peter," He said. "Let's rehearse."

"Not right now, Micky," the blonde said despondently. "Maybe later."

"Why do later what we could be doing right now?" Micky said. Then he paused. "Come to think of it, why do right now what we could have been doing three hours ago? Come on, man, I'm going crazy without something to do! Besides, we need to learn a whole new setlist!"

That got Peter's attention. "What?" He asked, frowning. "Why?"

"Well, we can't keep doing Mike and Davy's songs," Micky said, as if it were obvious. "I mean, they wrote them, they're bound to do them in their separate careers. Once they get the contracts, their songs will be legally theirs, and we'll be doing covers. You know we got hired more often when we did our own music!"

"Wait a minute," Peter said. "This is giving me a headache! You mean we can't do the old songs anymore because that's doing covers of songs that haven't been produced yet?"

"Exactly!" Micky said. "You gotta stay one step ahead, Pete, that's the only way to make it in this business! If we continue doing these songs, we'll stop being hired once Mike and Davy's careers really get going!"

"Uh, okay," Peter said. "So, are we gonna go back to just doing the songs we wrote as the California Dreamer and Connecticut Yankee?"

Micky hesitated. "Yeah," he said finally. "Only... I'm not sure I want to keep our old name."

"What?" Peter found himself repeating. "Why?"

"I don't know," Micky said, shrugging and looking away. "I guess... it'll seem like we're taking a step backwards, don't you think?"

Peter considered this. "Well..." He said hesitantly. "We are. Taking a step backwards, I mean. But if you want a new name, we could probably come up with something."

"Tork and Dolenz?" Micky said with a half-smile.

Peter chuckled. "Micky and Pete," he volunteered.

They both sat silently for a few more minutes.

"You know what?" Micky said after awhile. "Let's keep the old names. Just for old times sake. Just think of it, Pete. You and me, taking on the world... again, I mean. We'll become the biggest stars in California! What was it I used to say? Our name is gonna be up in lights, everybody will come from miles around to see us!"

"Yeah," Peter said, smiling. "Something like that. Who knows? Maybe it'll be easier this time around, and we'll be discovered and we'll get our chance to shine!"

The conversation was a little lackluster, however. Micky was trying to put up a front of enthusiasm for Peter, who was doing the same for Micky. But, they both went over to the bandstand, which seemed gapingly empty. Micky sat down behind his drums, and Peter picked up his bass, and they began playing, choosing to do Sometime in the Morning.

It sounded just as good as it had the first time they ever played it. But it was obvious to both of them that it was missing something.

Peter, doing the echoes all by himself, felt heartbroken at the lack of his younger, shorter British friend accompanying him on harmonies. And Micky noticed keenly the lack of guitar, which had added a fullness to the song, which now seemed... unprofessional, to say the least.

But neither said this to the other, and after the song was over, they both sat silently for awhile.

"...Let's not do that one anymore," Micky said.

Peter nodded. "It just sounds... wrong now, without-"

He stopped suddenly, and glanced at Micky, who pursed his lips. "Well," he said in a falsely cheery voice. "Let's try Words."


	30. Fading Through the Door: Part 4

_Author's note: Two updates in one day! WOO! lol, I just got inspired for this fic, and so the ensuing chapter came into being. It's a lot longer than I intended, but I didn't want to take anything out, and it's after midnight here, so... enjoy!_

_P.S. Just like parts 1, 2 and 3, this story is based on the story arc of the same name, written by Crystal Rose of Pollux. As such, some of the diologue, as well as a few descriptive scenes, belong to her._

* * *

Running through the swinging doors into the large but old-fashioned kitchen, Micky stopped for a moment to catch his breath before diving towards the wood stove and ducking behind it, trying to be as still and as quiet as possible.

The door was banged open, and a man came barging into the room.

"DOLENZ!" He yelled. "I SWEAR, WHEN I FIND YOU, YOU ARE DEAD!"

Micky bit his lip in an attempt to keep from crying out in fear. Luckily, he was skinny enough that the man didn't see him behind the stove, and as the man was rather dim-witted anyway, he simply looked wildly about the room before growling and leaving the kitchen to look someplace else.

Micky let out a breath and allowed himself a moment to calm down before standing shakily to his feet and looking around. He had to find Peter, and fast.

It had been two weeks since Davy had quit the band, and so far, Micky and Peter had experienced the same kind of luck they had had as the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer the first time around. That is to say, they'd gotten one gig in the past two weeks.

That was what had started this whole thing. Micky and Peter had shown up for the gig, a celebratory party for the employer's Uncle Dodo. As it turned out, Uncle Dodo was very rich and very crabby and very, very dead, which was why his relatives were celebrating.

Peter and Micky had been horrified to learn that they were providing entertainment at such an event, but they really needed the money.

Mr. Babbit had come collecting the week prior, and although both Mike and Davy had left their shares of the rent, thus providing enough to pay for the month, Micky and Peter had been left with little money remaining. Food had taken backseat priority; their only concern was keeping the pad. Unless they got twice as much money this month, they would be evicted. And that was simply not an option.

So they had agreed to play at the death-party, and for the first hour of the gig, everything had gone well. All the guests seemed to be having a grand time at the expense of Uncle Dodo, and although Micky and Peter were playing an entire new list of songs (mostly written at night, when they would forget to go to bed until one of them would notice the rising sun, at which point they would both crash for a few hours before starting the day), they were doing pretty well and were beginning to feel optimistic about the whole thing.

Then they overheard one of the relatives, a Cousin Horace, plotting to switch out the last remaining will and testament of Uncle Dodo, which was to be read at the end of the evening. According to Cousin Horace, who was explaining his plan to a rather dim-witted but very huge, very muscle-bound goon, the will left all of Uncle Dodo's wealth to Little Lucy, who had had the privilege of calling Uncle Dodo "Grandfather."

Little Lucy was not so little anymore, and she was very poor, very sweet, and very, very pretty. So Micky and Peter decided to help her out, which had led to them sneaking around and setting up an elaborate trap and using various funny disguises, in order to trap Cousin Horace in the act of switching the wills.

Only, something had gone wrong, something had back-fired, and now Micky and Peter had been separated, Micky chased by the goon and Peter chased by Cousin Horace.

"Peter!" Micky called out in a somewhat loud whisper as he walked around the kitchen. "Peter, are you in here? It's me, Micky!" He looked under the table and behind a few cupboards, and was just about to leave when he spotted something on the ground. It was his curly blonde wig, which Peter had been using in the plot to capture Cousin Horace. That meant that Peter had to be somewhere in the kitchen. But where?

He looked around again, and he found his attention drawn to... Of course, why hadn't he thought of it before?

Walking over to the back of the kitchen, Micky opened the old-fashioned walk-in freezer and looked inside. Sure enough, there was Peter, sitting in the middle of the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, shivering.

"H-hey, M-Micky," He said, smiling up at the brunette. ""b-boy, am I g-glad t-to s-see y-you!"

"Peter, what are you doing in there!?" Micky demanded, stepping inside and grabbing Peter's arm.

_Click._

Micky, who had been pulling Peter to his feet, froze (no pun intended). Turning around, he looked at the freezer door, which had swung shut behind him.

"C-cousin Horace sh-shut m-me in h-here," Peter explained, his teeth chattering. "There's n-no h-handle on the ins-side."

"I can see that," Micky said, noticing that he could also see his breath. "You could have said that earlier.

Peter shrugged. "S-sorry," he said. "But l-look... Food." The blonde pointed to the shelves and Micky looked to where he was pointing. "P-peter," he said. "Th-those are frozen v-vegetables."

"Th-they're still f-food," Peter said. "W-we m-might as well eat while we're h-here."

Micky looked at the vegetables and felt his stomach growl at the sight. "W-well," he said. "M-maybe just a f-few."

That was how Little Lucy had found them ten minutes later, shivering and stuttering and gnawing on the rock-solid frozen veggies.

After Cousin Horace was stopped and everything was explained, the two boys were given a hot meal and were paid immediately, both from their employer, and from Little Lucy, who, now finding herself rich, graciously gave the boys... five dollars each.

"Well, I suppose we should count our blessings," Micky said, pocketing his share of the money. "Every little bit helps."

"Yeah," Peter said. "And the free meal was good."

"That's right, Pete," Micky said. "And I managed to sneak a few of those carrots into your guitar case, so we can snack on those tomorrow."

"That's good," Peter said. "And you know what else?"

"What's that?" Micky asked.

"Cousin Horace said he liked our music," Peter said. "He said he might be able to get us a gig playing a show for the inmates at his prison."

* * *

It had been two and a half weeks since their gig at the death-party, and Peter was looking everywhere except at the one thing he was thinking the most about.

They had played only one more gig since that last one, luckily, Cousin Horace's plans had fallen through, and the boys had not had to resort to playing a show at the prison. They had, however, resorted to the closest thing to it. They had finally managed to secure a minimum-wage job at the Cheep n' Speedy Burger Joint, a 24-hour greasy diner across town. Micky worked as a waiter during the day shift, and Peter worked as a combined waiter-janitor during the graveyard shift.

They had slipped into a routine; Micky would work the day shift and come home, he and Peter would rehearse their set list and look for any gigs that happened to take place between five and ten-thirty, which was when Peter's shift started. Then Micky would sleep while Peter worked. Then, when Peter got home in the morning, he would crash while Micky went off to work, waking up a few hours before Micky got home, and he would go down to the corner news stand and read as many of the work ads as he could without actually having to pay for a paper.

But today, Peter had something different in mind.

He'd gone down to the news stand and looked at the ads alright, but not for any gigs. The rent would be due any day now, Mr. Babbit was going to show up knocking on their door, and unless they got a miracle, there was no way they would be able to pay this months rent.

It had been hard enough when there were four people paying their shares, now it was just him and Micky, and he just had to face it, The California Dreamer and the Connecticut Yankee were no good without their Lone Star and Union Jack. They had been unsuccessful before, they were unsuccessful now. Only this time, there was more at stake than simply a house.

They could live anywhere, they had bounced from hotel to boarding room to small apartment almost on a weekly basis before; but now... now they had an actual home, not just a sleeping arrangement. They didn't want to be evicted.

Peter looked up, interrupted in his thoughts, as Micky opened the door. "Hi, Pete," he said, walking over to the couch and flopping down onto it. "Any luck?"

Peter shook his head. "No," he said. "I couldn't find any gigs."

Something in his tone must have been off, 'cause Micky looked up at him, frowning slightly. "What's wrong?" He asked.

Peter shook his head. "It's just... the rent's due," he stated.

Micky sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I know. I don't know how we're going to pay it."

"Me neither," Peter said, squirming slightly. He knew how to pay it. He just didn't want to tell Micky. He knew Micky would try to stop him. But... maybe he didn't have to...

"Micky?" He said. Micky looked up at him.

"Yeah, Pete?" He asked. "What's up?"

Peter took a deep breath. "How important is it that we stay here at the pad?"

Micky blinked. "That bad, huh?" He asked.

"Well..." Peter shrugged his shoulders non-commitedly. "Let's just say, if we _couldn't _afford the rent and we got evicted, how would you feel about it?"

Micky laughed. "How would I feel about it?" He asked. "Honestly, Peter, I would probably cry. But maybe that's the sleep-deprivation talking. I couldn't sleep again last night. Every time I almost drifted off, I would remember that stupid empty bed and I would be wide awake again."

Peter nodded, he was facing similar problems. "Maybe one of us could move," he suggested. "So we'd be sharing one room with each other, instead of each of us having our own room..."

He trailed off as Micky shook his head. "No," he said. "No, those are _their _beds. I know I'm being sentimental and foolish, but I don't want to sleep in Davy's bed, and I don't want you sleeping in Mike's."

"Fair enough," Peter said. He knew what he had to do. "Alright," he said, standing up. "We're going to need to work twice as hard from this point on. New plan: You look for gigs, after all, you _do_ know more about than I do still."

"What are you going to do?" Micky asked, already reaching into the almost-empty petty cash jar and fishing out a few pennies for a paper.

"Me?" Peter asked, grabbing his bass and slinging the strap around his shoulder. "I'm gonna go down to the station and busk with everything I've got. Maybe somebody will feel bad for me and give me twenty dollars."

Micky chuckled. "I like your enthusiasm," he said. "Alright, see ya later, Pete!"

With that, they both left the pad, Micky walking down one sidewalk to the news stand, and Peter walking down the other towards the bus station. After he'd walked a few blocks, however, he changed direction and began hurrying along the sidewalk, his heart beating fast with what he was about to do.

He was hurrying so that if Micky chased him down for some reason, he wouldn't be able to find him. He was hurrying so that nobody would try and stop him and chat- an occurrence that happened quite often, as people seemed to take to Peter easily, even if they never saw him again. But mainly he was hurrying so that he wouldn't have the chance to change his mind. Because if he gave himself even a moment in which to doubt, he would never go through with it.

Stopping in front of the store front, he stared up at the sign for a few moments before sighing and walking inside.

* * *

"Hey, Peter, you're back early," Micky said as Peter walked into the pad. "Did you get the twenty?" The drummer smiled, but his smile quickly faded. "Peter..." He asked slowly. "Where's your bass."

"I..." Peter said, before his throat closed up. He swallowed and tried again. "I sort of... well, that is to say... I pawned it."

"You WHAT!?" Micky gasped.

Peter looked down at the ground. "We... we needed the money... so we could keep the pad. I sold it to the pawn shop downtown."

"Oh, Peter!" Micky said. "Why? I mean, I guess I know why, but how could you? You loved that bass! You've had it for longer than I've known you!"

Peter nodded stiffly. "...Yeah," he said simply.

Micky bit his lip. He could tell Peter felt badly about having to pawn his bass, the last thing he needed was to have Micky get after him about it. "Well," he said, trying to summon some enthusiasm from somewhere. "I guess we'll just have to make the best of it. Let's go pay that rent, and then we'll get back to work. We'll just earn back the money and buy it back. It's as simple as that."

"But what if they sell it before we get paid?" Peter said. "And what about next months rent?"

"Eh, we'll worry about next month next month," Micky said with a wave of his hand. "Besides, you know how Pawn shops are, it'll probably still be there for months. We've got plenty of time."

This cheered Peter up, but Micky... not so much. Peter's Bass was just the latest in a long line of disappointments, not the least of which being that after the first two weeks, they had stopped receiving phone calls from Davy and from Mike. At first, they had accredited it to the two rising-stars being busy, then they had accredited it to they themselves being busy. But now, they were forced to conclude that all four of them were busy, and, without being able to pay them, the Urgent Answering Service had stopped taking messages. This left a period of five and a half hours in which the phone could be answered if it rang; provided Micky and Peter weren't out auditioning as the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer, and as they were auditioning at every place they could think of, they were rarely home. So, they decided that it wasn't anyone's fault that they weren't getting calls. But it was disappointing all the same.

* * *

Four days later, Micky and Peter got their first paycheck.

"Peter!" Micky exclaimed dramatically, holding up his check. "Look! Money!"

"Oh, what a beautiful sight!" Peter said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

Their boss, the manager of the Cheep n' Speedy Burger Joint, glared at the two boys. "Yeah, money," he said. " Yer lucky yer getting _that_ much, you lazy good-for-nothin's. You'd better work twice as hard if you wanna see another check. With work as bad as yers, I'd be better off hiring a couple of monkeys!"

This caused both Micky and Peter to flinch, and the manager to smirk. He had learned early on that for some reason, the two had seemed to dislike the word, and he had proceeded to use it in their presence as often as he possibly could.

"Now get outta my sight before I puke, ya freaks," he said, his face returning to its usual scowl. "For heaven's sake, you stink of burnt vegetable oil and hamburger grease. Don't come back 'till you've managed to get that stench out of your clothes."

With that, he shoved the two boys out of his office and slammed the door.

"Well, that went better than I expected," Micky said with a smile. "First things first, let's go buy your bass!"

* * *

"Micky..." Peter said quietly.

"I know, Pete," Micky murmured, gazing up at the window of the pawn shop.

Peter's bass was gone. They had checked the window every day for the past four days, and it had been there. But with their luck, it just had to be bought right when they finally had enough money to buy it back.

"It's gone," Peter said blankly, as if he simply couldn't (or wouldn't) believe it. "How can it be gone?"

"Well, somebody must've bought it," Micky said.

"But... it can't be gone," Peter said, frowning. "It just can't be. I bought that bass myself, with my own money. That was the first thing I ever bought with only the money I earned. How can it be gone?"

Micky sighed. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said, but Peter didn't seem to hear him.

"I carried it with me all the way from Kent to Ventura," he continued. "I never let it out of my sight, and I always took care of it. And now it's gone, just like that. Gone forever."

"Peter, are you okay?" Micky asked.

Peter looked at Micky. "What am I going to do, Micky?" he asked. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know, Pete," Micky said honestly. "I suppose we can do gigs with your banjo until we can buy a new one..."

"A new one?" Peter asked. "What's the point? Don't you see? It's over. We're finished. Done for. We both know it, Mick, without the Monkees, we're just not good enough. We can't make it. I sold my bass, Micky. I never even _considered_ selling my bass before, no matter_ how_ hard times got."

"Peter, calm down," Micky said, now officially worried. "You're obviously upset right now, and we're both tired, maybe we should go home and take a nap, you'll probably feel much better..."

"What's the point?" Peter asked blankly, but he allowed Micky to grab the sleeve of his shirt and lead him away from the window and towards the pad as he continued to ramble. "It's all over. I give up. There's no reason to take a nap. Let's just catch a bus and blow this joint. Maybe we'll wake up in Monterey. I've always wanted to go to Monterey. I hear the surfing's good. What'd'ya say, Mick? We've got just as much chance of making it down in Monterey that we do here."

"Nah," Micky said absently, more to humor Peter than anything else. "Let's try to stay in the country, okay?"

"Suits me," Peter said. "We could head up instead, go up to Montana. It sounds a little like Monterey. Besides, it's beautiful in the fall. The sky is bigger, and the tamaracks are gorgeous. Wanna go to Montana, Mick? The air is so clean, so much cleaner than here in the big city. Let's go to Montana."

"Sure thing, Pete," Micky said. "But do me a favor, let's wait until tomorrow at least, okay? We've gotta get rested up for the trip; so we'll go home and you take a nice, long nap. Okay?"

"Okay, Micky," Peter said. "If you insist."

When they got to the Pad, Peter sat on the couch and stared blankly at the wall.

He seemed to have come to himself somewhat, he was no longer talking of going to Montana, he just sat in a depressed slump, his head in his hands. "It's gone..." He kept whispering. "It's really gone... I _sold_ it..."

"It's okay, Peter," Micky tried, but Peter couldn't be comforted.

"It's really gone," he said again. "I sold it, Micky. I _sold_ it. It's gone forever."

"Didn't mean to upset you, Shotgun, I got it back for you," Mike said, walking over to the pair and handing the bass to Peter, who, in his sleep-deprived state, looked at it the way one might look at the ghost of a loved one. Could it be true? Was it really back? "Oh," he said, taking it from Mike with a small smile. "Thanks, Mike." What a good friend, to buy back his beloved bass. As soon as Peter felt the neck of his bass, relief flooded through him, and something clicked in his mind.

"MIKE!?" He shouted, looking up at the Towering Texan, who smiled back.

Peter had always taken very good care of his bass. But he let it drop from his hands as he jumped up to hug his friend, luckily the bass landed on the seat of the couch, where he'd been sitting.

Micky too jumped up to hug Mike, talking a mile a minute about who knows what, but although they were overjoyed to see Mike, Davy's absence was all the more noticeable in comparison.

"What happened?" Mike asked, looking to Peter and Davy's room. The closet door was opened, and most of Davy's things were gone. "No, wait. Never mind. I know what happened. He never wanted me to go, did he?"

"None of us did," Peter said. "We all knew we'd miss you, and Davy…"

"He took it really hard," Micky finished. "Of course he would, right? I mean, he's known you the longest, and…"

"…And I should've realized that he would've been that upset," Mike sighed. "But I was too busy with my head up in the clouds. I've got to get back in touch with him; do you guys have his hotel phone number?"

They shook their heads.

"We've hardly been home," Micky said. "We did a few gigs—just the two of us—and then we spent the rest of the time trying to get the rent money the hard way."

"We'd have made it, though," Peter promised him, deciding to try and forget about how he had been ready to give up and go to Montana only a few moments before. "We'd just earned enough to get my bass back—so we could've done some more gigs again…"

"You guys can fill me in on the whole story on the way," Mike said, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Grab your instruments and come on."

"Our instruments? Now?" Micky asked, blinking in surprise. "Why? Where are we going?"

Mike merely smiled in response, taking out the newspaper clipping that Tanya had given him.

"Anaheim."

The smiles on Micky and Peter's faces told Mike that they knew exactly what he was planning.

Though, as they headed back to rejoin Barty in a limo he had rented, Peter was starting to look a little worried.

"But what if Davy doesn't want to be in the band anymore?" he wondered aloud, as they got into the limo. "The newspapers keep saying that he's doing so well on his own. He doesn't really need us to be a success."

"I'm guessing you don't need us, either," Micky added to Mike. "You won the contest, didn't you? That's why you managed to get this private transport."

"That's right—he did win," Barty said, overhearing them as they took their seats. "But he asked for me to bring him here—said he wanted his friends to be there when he signed that contract."

"I'm just a sentimental fool, ain't I?" Mike mused. "Yeah, I wanted you guys to be there. That's why I want one last gig—all four of us—before we go our separate ways. Davy doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to."

"Oh," Peter said, quietly. He should have known, he should have guessed that's what Mike was doing here. That moment when Mike had walked into the Pad, he had dared to hope... He had dared to believe that Mike was coming back for real, to stay.

But it was too good to be true. Mike was a true friend, he wanted them to share in his success, get them some publicity as well, and have a sort of farewell tour. A farewell tour, after only being separated for about five weeks. But he wasn't coming back. Peter shared a glance with Micky, who was thinking along the same lines.

They both made a silent agreement. No matter how hard it was, they were going to enjoy today. Perhaps Mike and Davy were better off alone, but the two of them needed the Monkees to succeed. They were going to enjoy their last gig if it killed them.

When they showed up in Anaheim, Davy was already onstage, getting ready to sing another song along to an accompaniment track. Micky felt a pang of hurt. Perhaps that was all he had ever been. An accompaniment for Davy and Mike. His dreams of being in the spotlight seemed further away than ever, just by hearing that track.

Mike's producer, Barty, he seemed to be called, began arguing with Davy's producer, whom the other two boys had never even heard the name of. Apparently, having three musicians barrel onto the stage in the middle of the performance was something Davy's producer didn't agree with.

As the two of them began bickering in earnest, Micky tuned them out and listened as Davy began to sing.

He was singing "Listen to the Band," which Micky thought bitterly ironic, as there was no band, just the accompaniment track. He shook the thoughts away, however. This was Davy's moment, and Mike's, he was going to be happy for them, gosh-darn it!

Then Davy started singing the chorus and Micky almost fell to pieces.

"Weren't they good, they made me happy.

I think I can make it alone."

Beside him, Peter drew in a slight gasp of breath.

They looked at each other. Of course this was going to be their first song at their last gig. They made Mike and Davy happy, but Mike and Davy could very well make it on their own. It was almost as if fate was rubbing it in.

They were so caught up in their own emotions that it took a second for them to realize that Davy was no longer singing alone. Mike had slipped past the two producers and had gone out on the stage and he'd started singing along with Davy, who suddenly looked very happy.

Micky and Peter looked at each other again.

"Well?" Peter whispered.

Micky took a deep breath. "For California dreamin'," he said solemnly.

Peter nodded. "I can't turn my name into a farewell toast," he quipped.

Micky blinked, then chuckled. "You always burn the toast anyway," he said. "Come on."

And so the two boys swallowed hard and walked out onto the stage for what they assumed would be their last successful show.

Davy grinned at their appearances as well, and they started singing along.

"Oh, woman plays a song and no one listens,

I need help I'm falling again.

C'mon, play the drums just a little bit louder..."

Here Micky, who was smiling and trying to enjoy himself, pantomimed banging a set of drums, making Peter laugh, though his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

"Tell us we can live without her

Now that we have listened to the band."

They all stopped singing, and waited as the accompaniment track continued and Micky kept pretending to play the drums just a little bit louder.

Then, right at the right moment, they all sang (or shouted, Micky was particularly high-strung at the moment):

"Listen to the band!"

The audience all clapped and cheered as the song drew to a close and Davy introduced the three of them.

Then their instruments were brought out, and Davy Jones, rising Solo star, became the Monkees for the rest of the evening, as the other three helped him finish out his setlist.

Then, when the evening was over, the Monkees walked off stage, using their traditional Monkees walk, and then, once the curtains had closed, they became Davy Jones, Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork and Micky Dolenz once more, although maybe not in that order.

Peter and Micky stood by silently as Davy and Mike each went to their respective producers, who were still talking together.

Davy's producer grudgingly admitted that the crowd had loved the surprise twist, but warned Davy that he couldn't pull any more stunts like this one. Micky wondered briefly if the Producer would take Davy's word for it, or if he would ban him and Peter from any backstage events, just to be on the safe side.

Mike's producer assured Davy's producer that such a stunt would not happen, as Mike just wanted one last gig before he would sign on and move to Arizona. He also recommended that Davy's producer sign Davy on to make "Double sure" that it didn't happen again.

Micky sighed. He knew what that was translating as. The two rising stars needed to be signed on to a contract to protect them from the meddling upstarts trying to use their friends as tickets to fame and fortune.

_Ha,_ Micky thought idly. _They're not my stepping stone._

He was all prepared to say goodbye to two of his best friends when Mike spoke up.

"Um… Actually, Barty?" he said. "You're gonna hate me for this, I know, but… I'm going to concede my first place victory in the contest. That means that Jim and Tanya win the contract."

"What!?" Barty exclaimed, looking at Mike in disbelief. "But your career! You were the one who said that you wanted to be a success!"

"I did say that, and I meant it—every bit of it," Mike said. "But what I didn't realize was that I didn't need to be a solo star to be a success. I was a success already—not in the notary sense, but… I had my bandmates, and we were doing alright. But then I just ran off without a second thought, chasing after a dream that, despite being good, wasn't as good as what I already had. I was ready to sign that solo contract—I really was. But being out there on stage with my bandmates…" He drew Davy, as well as a stunned Micky and Peter, closer into a hug. "That's where it's at. If I'm going to be a musical success, I want to be a success with them."

Davy's producer now looked at him, pleadingly. "You're not going to refuse to sign, too, are you?" He asked.

Davy gave him an apologetic smile. "Some things are more important than money," he said. "I missed them all so much, and… I realized I made a mistake, too."

"You're making a mistake _now_," the producer moaned, massaging the bridge of his nose. "You're letting a fortune slip through your fingers."

"That goes for you, too, Mike," Barty said. "Country stars are rare—very rare. You could be a rich man."

"Well, seeing as though I've got three friends worth their weight in gold, I reckon I'm pretty wealthy already," Mike said, as Davy nodded in agreement.

Micky blinked and smiled, and next to him, Peter was grinning. True, the three of them didn't weigh that much, especially after the past five weeks, and with Davy being so short... but still, their combined weight in gold would have been quite a bit of money.

The wheedling and coaxing of the producers did no good; together once again, the Monkees were not about to let that go. And as they aimlessly wandered backstage, thinking about what had happened to them, there was also an exchange of heartfelt apologies.

"I shouldn't have ditched you guys like that," Mike said.

"Me, too," Davy agreed.

"Oh, pshaw," Micky said. "You guys got to know what it was like."

Peter nodded in agreement. "And what matters is that you came back," he added.

"I'll say it did," a fifth voice said.

They turned to see a familiar, elderly woman smiling at all of them as she saw them together once again.

"Millie!" Mike blinked in surprise. "I don't get it… You were the one who told me about Barty—why are you so happy that I turned him down?"

"Because this is what I wanted you to realize," she said. "You were already doing what you loved, and you had the love of three wonderful friends who were more like brothers. You already had everything you needed; you _were_ a success. So when you told me that you wanted me to make you a success, I was surprised."

She placed a hand on Mike shoulder.

"I knew that just telling you that wouldn't have made you feel any better. You had to realize it on your own. And now, all four of you have realized it. Best of all, I know you four will never let anyone come between you guys again." She smiled. "Hey, listen; I don't think Barty will be so keen on giving you a ride back to Malibu. Larry's got the moving van; catch up with us at the diner down the street after dinner, and we'll give you kids a ride back—if you don't mind sitting in the back of the van…"

"I think we'll be fine with that," Mike said, with a smile, as the others nodded in agreement.

After Millie left, Mike shook his head. "Man, I can't believe how stupid I was," he said. "She's right; I had all I needed with you guys. Heck, I even wrote a line in 'Papa Gene's Blues' that said as much…"

"Well, sometimes, it's just plain easy to miss what's right in front of your face," Peter said. "Think about it—it's so close, it's out of focus, and you can't—"

"I think they get it," Micky said, patting Peter on the shoulder. The brunet suddenly blushed as his stomach growled. "…And that reminds me that we haven't eaten a thing all day…"

"There's a whole bunch of food in my dressing room," Davy said, smiling. "We can all feast on that before we head back; it'll be a while before we have a free meal again."

Peter felt his mouth water at the mention of "a whole bunch of food," and Micky began jumping up and down slightly next to him.

"You guys sit tight; Micky and I will get it!" Peter said, and he and Micky rushed away in search of Davy's dressing room.

After asking for directions, they found their way to the room and stepped inside. The first thing they noticed... actually, the _only_ thing they noticed, was a long table against the wall filled with all kinds of food.

Micky wasted no time in transporting the food directly from the table and into his mouth, but Peter picked up a plate and started piling the food onto it, to take back to the others, popping a piece into his mouth every now and again.

"Boy, can you imagine eating like this every day?" Micky asked, his mouth full of what appeared to be barbeque chicken.

"No, I can't," Peter said. "I would close my mouth when I was chewing."

"Ha ha," Micky deadpanned. "Man, Davy's giving up a lot. Mike is too, for that matter."

"Yeah," Peter said, looking down at the table. "Micky?" He asked.

"Peter, I know exactly what you're going to ask," Micky said. "You want to know if we're doing the right thing by letting them throw this all away just for us."

Peter sighed. "I don't want them to feel like they owe us," he said. "I'm just afraid that... that one day, Mr. Babbit will knock on the door and demand a rent we don't have, the refrigerator will be empty and there won't be a gig in sight, and they're going to wake up and realize that they didn't have to live that way. And it'll be all our fault. And you know they won't blame us, but it'll be there, all the same, the knowledge that they could have had the world and chose the Monkees instead."

"Honestly, Pete," Micky said. "That could very well happen one day. But you know what? You were right! They have to make their own decisions. We couldn't force them to choose us, and we can't force them to choose success either. They chose what works best for them. We should just be lucky it's best for us, too."

"Yeah..." Peter said. "You know, I like the way Millie put it... we're doing what we love, and we have wonderful friends who are more like brothers. we have everything we need; that's what makes us successful."

"I think you got the quote a bit wrong, there, Pete," Micky said. "But you're right, that's what success really is. In the long run, it really doesn't matter how much money we make. What really matters is the relationships we build while we live."

"Yeah," Peter said. "And to think, none of us would have even thought about it like that if this whole thing hadn't happened."

"Yep," Micky said. "Now, I'm all for deep thinking and philosophical contemplation and all, but let's get the rest of this food and take it out to Mike and Davy. I'm hungry."

Peter laughed. "Of course you are," he said. "But really, I couldn't agree more."


	31. To the End of Good Things: Part 1

_Author's notes: This fic is dedicated to MonkeeMidgie, who waited for my story as well. It's a Christmas story, and I know, it's a bit late, but hey, it's fanfic. You can make believe it's Christmas and fool yourself into getting excited about Christmas presents. I hope I get a Mike Nesmith green wool cap. I didn't get one last year (yeah, it's 2013 now) because even though my family looked everywhere, they simply could not find one. But, my sister is learning how to crochet, and then to knit, so I'm optimistic about this year. Only 11 months, 10 days to go. I can hardly wait!_

_Well, that train of thought jumped the tracks, crashed and burned, then it's ghost went all the way to Clarksville and back, and I just don't know what I'm doing hangin' round. Anyway, here's the first part of my Christmas story, I'm not sure how many parts this is going to take... I haven't quite finished planning it out yet._

* * *

All in all, Micky was excited. The reason for his excitement: The four Monkees were going to go down to Ventura for Christmas. It had been a little more than three years since he and Peter had left, and Micky's mom had sent him several letters begging him to come home for the holidays.

They were considering going, but hadn't really decided, when she took the persuasion up a notch and started calling collect every day to convince them. Unable to afford the bill, the Monkees quickly made up their minds and assured her that they would come.

And so, all packed up and ready to go, the four boys piled into the Monkeemobile and began the hour-and-a-half long drive down to Ventura.

Micky was on overdrive for the entire trip, talking so fast that none of them could even make out what he was saying, and generally being a nuisance by constantly changing seats, jostling Davy, who was sitting next to him, and falling out of the car.

Luckily, they had been driving through a town when that last one happened, and as there were kids running around everywhere, Mike was driving fairly slowly.

"Mick, would you calm down?" He asked, after he'd backed the car up and Micky had climbed back into the Monkeemobile. "We'll get there soon enough, there's no reason for you to be this hyper."

"No reason!?" Micky exclaimed. "We're going to go spend Christmas at my house! That's plenty enough reason for me to be hyper!"

"Not to mention, Micky's pretty hyper anyway," Peter said as Mike began to slowly start the car back onto the road. "But gee, it'll be good to see everyone again. I can't wait!"

"Oh, now don't you start!" Davy said, glancing at Peter before turning back to Micky, who had just accidentally elbowed him. "Watch, it would'ja?" He pleaded. "That hurt!"

"I'm sorry, Davy," Micky said. "It's just we're almost there, just another half-hour and we'll be- OH MY GOSH STOP THE CAR!"

Mike, startled, let out a small gasp and screeched the car to a stop, looking around. When it appeared that there wasn't any immediate danger, he turned to Micky. "Don't do that," He said.

"What's wrong this time?" Davy asked as Micky jumped back out of the car.

"My candy bar's missing," Micky yelled over his shoulder as he ran back to where he had fallen. "I think it must've fallen out of my pocket when I fell out of the car."

Sure enough, the candy bar was lying on the concrete a little ways back, so he picked it up and returned to the car, unwrapping the candy bar as he ran.

Hopping into the back seat, he was about to take a bite out of it when it was suddenly plucked out of his hands. "Oh no you don't," Mike said, taking the candy bar. "Not when you're this hyper already. I'm about to get going fast again, you'll get this back when we get to Ventura."

"Mike!" Micky whined, but Mike was not going to be persuaded.

"Here," He said, handing it to Peter. "Keep this safe until we get to Ventura. And don't go giving it to Micky when you think I'm not watching," The Texan said, catching Peter's sidelong glance to his hyper young friend. "Cause believe me, Pete, I'm always watching."

That was sufficient enough to keep Peter from giving the candy bar to Micky, although the drummer tried several times to convince his friend to hand it over. The candy bar was completely forgotten, however, as soon as they reached Ventura.

Micky was too excited to be of any help in the art of giving directions, so Mike relied on Peter's instructions while Micky streamed endlessly in meaningless chatter, talking so quickly that the others could barely figure out what he was saying.

"Well, this can't be right," Mike said when they pulled up in front of the hotel. "Peter, I thought we were going to Micky's mom's house for Christmas."

"We are," Peter said. "But the house is too small for the four of us to stay there for the whole weekend. Besides, this is where Micky and I lived before we moved to LA."

"Really?" Davy asked. "You lived in a hotel?"

"You bet we did!" Micky said, jumping out of the car, not even bothering to open the door. "Come on, let's go, I want to get checked in! Whoa, that's weird, I never thought I'd be saying that about this place. Well? What are you all waiting for!? Let's go!"

With that, he ran over to the front door and started jumping up and down as the others got out of the car and hurried over to where he was waiting, afraid that if he had to stay still for very long, he would explode from the energy he was currently charged with.

As soon as they got close, he swung the door open and ran over to the front desk.

""Hi!" He said excitedly. The girl looked up at him. "Um, hello," she said. "Can I help you?"

"As a matter of fact, you can," Micky said. "You're new, so I don't blame you for not knowing who I am."

The girl looked a little confused, and slightly irritated. "Well," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"We want two motel rooms," Micky said. "And, uh, we need one of those rooms to be room 113."

"113?" The girl asked. "I'm sorry, we don't rent out that room. It's on permanent reservation."

Micky's eyebrows shot up. "Permanent reservation?" He asked. "Really? Mr. Spiner hasn't changed it at all?"

"I'm sorry," The girl said, frowning up at Micky. "Who are you again?"

"I'm Micky," he said. "Micky Dolenz. I used to work for Mr. Spiner, he rented out room 113 to me and Peter."

"Micky?" They heard, and they turned around to see another girl, this one wearing a concierge's uniform. "Peter? You're back!"

"Tawnia!" Micky yelled. "Yeah, we're back! We're in town for Christmas, so we're gonna stay here at the hotel!"

"Hi, Tawnia," Peter said, smiling. "Let me introduce you to our friends, this is Michael Nesmith, and Davy Jones."

"Pleased to meet you," Mike said, reaching out to shake her hand.

"Nice to meet you too, Cowboy," Tawnia said, smiling at his accent. "You from Texas?"

Mike blinked. "Yeah, I am," he said.

"That's neat," she said. "I have an uncle down in Texas, I used to visit him sometimes. I don't suppose you lived anywhere near each other, it's a big state. What part of Texas are you from?"

"New Gallifrey," Mike said. "How about your uncle?"

"Ah, he lives in Houston," She said. Then she turned to Davy. "And what about you," she said. "You from Texas, too?"

"Further, actually," Davy said. "Manchester, England."

"Wow," Tawnia said, turning back to Micky. "Connecticut, Texas, England... how on earth did you manage to get such a diverse group of friends?"

"I'm not entirely sure myself," Micky said. "But anyway, what's this I hear about our room being on permanent reservation?"

Tawnia smiled. "Well," she said. "Mr. Spiner did that. It just about freaked out the entire staff, after you left, he simply came out of his office, announced that room 113 was not going to be changed, rented, or even unlocked, unless you came back. Then he went back into his office and didn't come out until a week later, except on business."

"Wow," Peter said with a smile. "Who knew he would miss us that much? We should go say hi."

"Before we do that," Mike said. "I'd like to get checked in, so we can get all our luggage out of the car."

"Here, you guys get checked in, I'll go and get Mr. Spiner," Tawnia said. Then she left.

"Well, you heard her," Micky said, leaning on the front desk and smirking smugly at the girl. "Open up room 113, cause we are BACK!"

They were moving all their luggage and their instruments into the elevator when Mr. Spiner came running out of his office and looked around the room wildly before spotting Micky and Peter and running over to them.

"Hello, boys," he said, smiling.

"Hello, Mr. Spiner," Peter said, smiling back.

"Hi!" Micky said excitedly. "We're back! Merry Christmas!"

"And boy, am I glad to see you," Mr. Spiner said. "We're a bit short on help, you see, and we need a few extra hands to help pick up the slack."

Micky hesitated. "Actually, Mr. Spiner," he said. "We're here for a Christmas vacation, we're not coming back to work for you."

"I know, boy, I was just pulling your leg!" Mr. Spiner said, laughing.

Micky and Peter joined in, and Mike and Davy also chuckled a bit. Finally, Mr. Spiner seemed to collect himself. "Anyway, they gave you your old room, right?"

"They sure did," Micky said. "And we rented the room next to it, for Mike and Davy to stay in."

"What do you mean, 'rented'?" Mr. Spiner said. "You mean they took money from you boys?"

"Well, yeah," Micky said, frowning in confusion. "It's a hotel, they're supposed to."

"Well," Mr. Spiner said. "I've just made a decision that you don't need to pay for your room. It's yours, after all. There's no way I'd be able to rent it, not with the broken window, the mismatched furniture, not to mention the decor was ugly anyway."

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Spiner," Micky said, astonished. "But just because it was our room three years ago doesn't mean you have to give it to us free this weekend."

"Nonsense!" Mr. Spiner said. "Your other room will be free to, the one you rented for these two fine young boys you've brought with you. Now, boys, I'll have the concierge take your luggage up for you, while you go get some dinner in the kitchen. Unless, would you like your instruments sent down to the basement? That room is still empty, you know."

"Uh, sure," Micky said. "Mr. Spiner, are you feeling quite all right?"

"Yes, my boy, of course I am!" Mr. Spiner said gruffly. "Now, you'd better get in that kitchen! We had quite the dinner crowd tonight, if you don't hurry, we might run out of meatloaf!"

That was enough to distract Micky and send him leading the way to the kitchen, Davy following behind him, but Peter waited for a moment, and Mike waited as well. Peter knew Mr. Spiner well enough to know that something was wrong, and Mike was intuitive enough to pick up in it, even though he hadn't known the man very long.

"Mr. Spiner," Peter said quietly. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

Mr. Spiner took a deep breath, and then smiled gently at him. "I'm fine, Peter," he said. "Don't worry about it, go ahead and get your dinner. There's nothing you could do to help anyway."

That wasn't much of an answer, but Mr. Spiner suddenly turned and walked away, so after a moment, Peter and Mike began heading towards the kitchen.

"Don't worry, Pete," Mike said, noticing Peter's troubled expression. "I'm sure that whatever it is, Mr. Spiner's got it handled."

"I hope so," Peter said. "He was a good boss, I liked working for him. I don't know much about him, but he's a good man, I'd be sad to see something bad happen to him."

"Pete, you'd be sad to see something bad happen to anyone, no matter how good they are," Mike said.

Peter laughed, reassured. "Yeah," he said. "That's true... But, Mr. Spiner was right about one thing, we don't want all the meatloaf to be gone before we get there. Come on, you haven't lived till you've tried Aunt Franny's meatloaf."

* * *

To say Aunt Franny was happy to see Peter and Micky would be an understatement. When Micky burst through the door with an exuberant "Hi, Aunt Franny!" She screamed and dropped a bowl of soup she'd been filling for a customer, then stood and stared at Micky in shock, one hand over her heart, one over her mouth.

Finally, she seemed to regain control of her senses and with a grin, she stepped forward and pulled Micky into a hug.

"Oh, Micky, dear!" She said. "You about gave me a heart attack, coming in here, just like you used to, as if you haven't been gone for years! Why didn't you at least call ahead!?"

"Sorry, Aunt Franny," Micky said. "I didn't think about it."

"No matter," Aunt Franny said, pulling away. Then she looked at Davy. "My dear Peter, how much you've changed!" She said.

Davy chuckled. "I'm Davy Jones," he said. "It's nice to meet you."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Aunt Franny said with a smile. Then she looked around. "Where _is_ Peter?"

"Right here," Peter said, having stepped into the kitchen just in time to hear. "Hello, Aunt Franny."

"Peter!" Aunt Franny exclaimed, pulling the blonde into another hug. "Oh, I missed you both so much!"

Mike smiled, and when she was done hugging Peter, he held out his hand. "My name's Michael Nesmith," he said. "So... are you Micky's aunt, then?"

Aunt Franny laughed. "No," she said. "No, Aunt Franny's just what everybody calls me, although I'm beginning to think I should just go ahead and claim it, I get asked enough times. Besides, I would be honored to have Micky as my nephew!"

"Thanks, Aunt Franny!" Micky said. "I would be honored to have you as an aunt, you've always treated me like a nephew, or even a son!"

"Oh, Micky," Aunt Franny said. "I see you haven't changed a bit. I hope you're not expecting any extra food for your flattery. I might've missed you, but I'm not going to give you any more than what I give all my customers."

"Of course," Micky said, acting innocent. "I wouldn't expect anything else!"

Peter grinned at the exchange, remembering the first time he'd ever seen Micky flatter Aunt Franny, who always put an extra portion on his plate when she thought he wasn't looking.

"So are you boys all paying today, or what?" Aunt Franny asked. "I feel all strange even asking you, but since you're no longer on the payroll, I'm not sure what the arrangement is..."

"Oh, we talked to Mr. Spiner," Micky assured her. "He told us to get dinner, and he's not letting us pay for our rooms, either, so I think the meals are free, too."

Aunt Franny sighed, but then smiled. "Alright," she said. "Four dinners coming up! I assume you both want the meatloaf?"

"You assume correctly," Micky said. "And get them the meatloaf too," he said, jerking his head in Mike and Davy's direction. "They need to try it."

"Yes, I admit, I've been very curious as to this legendary meatloaf," Mike put in as they all went to the back of the kitchen and sat down. "After all I've heard about it, I'd just about expect it to get up and talk to me."

"No kidding," Davy said, chuckling. "I'm almost afraid to try it. What if it's not as good as these two say?"

"Sacrilege!" Micky exclaimed, gasping. "Blasphemy! Heresy! Mutiny! Treachery! Er, Treason! Um... Betrayal?"

"I think they get it, Micky," Peter said, laughing.

As soon as Aunt Franny brought the plates, however, and Mike and Davy sampled the dish, all joking fell by the wayside as Mike and Davy both agreed that no other meatloaf could compare, and so the four friends fell into silence as they ate the rest of their meal, including brownie ice-cream sundaes, "in celebration of Christmas and reunions and old friendships and the end of good things," according to Aunt Franny.

After the meal, Mike gathered the dishes and brought them over to the sink to where Aunt Franny was washing dishes, then, grabbing a towel, he began to dry and put away some of the clean ones.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, dear," Aunt Franny said.

Mike smiled. "Now, don't try and stop me," he said. "I know none of the others'll think to help out, As much as I love 'em, Davy and Mick are too thoughtless to even notice, and Peter won't notice because he's Peter. But not me. I've gotta be doin' something, I never could just sit by and watch other people clean up my messes."

Aunt Franny smiled. "You have a good heart, Mike," she said. "I was worried about Micky and Peter, going out into the world by themselves. I'm glad you found them, and took care of them."

Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I have a habit of doing that," he said, marveling once again at how his life had turned out. How had he gone from being a quiet loner to being the leader and big brother to three Monkees? But then he sighed. "I wouldn't trade them for the world, though," he said. "I almost did, once, but I learned my lesson, and now nothing can separate the lot of us."

Aunt Franny smiled. "Thank you, Mike," she said. "I feel a whole lot better knowing you're around to keep them safe."

"Yeah..." Mike said. After a few moments, he did what he'd really come to do. "Aunt Franny, I have a question," He said.

"Yes, Mike?" Aunt Franny asked, handing him a clean spoon to dry.

"...What's going on with Mr. Spiner?" He asked. "And don't you say 'nothing' and pretend everything's fine," He said, as she shifted her weight and looked away. "We all noticed it," he continued. "Well, except for Davy, but he doesn't know Mr. Spiner at all. Micky just forgot when Mr. Spiner changed the subject to meatloaf, and Peter's Peter, like I already said. But it's obvious something's going on, so please, tell me. Maybe I can help."

Aunt Franny sighed. "You're right," she said. "Yes, you're right. Okay, I'll tell you. The hotel... it's- it's being shut down."


	32. To the End of Good Things part 2

_Author's note: Rather a long chapter, but I really didn't want to break this story into three parts, so I shoved it all in one. One quick note: I do not own the movie "White Christmas" starring Danny Kaye and three other people I don't know the names of, nor do I own the song "The Christmas Song" or "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," although both are favorites of mine, and songs I sing often. Also, just in case someone reads this who doesn't already know that words change over time, the word "gay" used to just mean "light-hearted," "fun-loving," or even "frolicksome," and Christmas songs are so old that they use the oled words, so in the last song they sing, that's what that means._

_Also, this is the last part of this particular story arc, so the final scene is more of a teaser for something I might expound on one day, not a cliffie signifying another chapter._

* * *

"They're shutting down the hotel!?" Micky exclaimed, jumping up from his seat.

The Monkees were in the basement having a meeting called by Mike, and he'd just relayed the news.

"That's what Aunt Franny said," Mike said. Then he sighed. "Look, Micky, I know you're upset-"

"They can't do that!" Micky continued. "This hotel's been here for nearly fifty years! Why, it's a historical landmark!"

"Really?" Peter asked, blinking. "What's it famous for?"

Micky sputtered. "You know," he said. "Famous stuff! Like, that one actress from that movie about the guy and the thing? She stayed here once!"

Peter frowned, thinking. "Huh," he said. "I must've missed that day."

"Me too," Micky said. "But I'm sure it happened! And, um... Oh! Me!"

"You?" Davy asked incredulously. "Micky, you're not famous."

"Yet," Micky said. "I'm not famous _yet_. Once we get our big break, people are gonna want to tour this very basement, where the famous Micky Dolenz learned to play the drums!"

"I agree with Micky," Peter said. Upon receiving strange looks from Mike and Davy, and even Micky, he expounded. "I mean, about not wanting to have the hotel shut down," he said. "Not about the tour group thing."

"It could happen!" Micky insisted.

"Guys, we can't just go meddling in business that isn't our own!" Mike said sensibly, standing up and moving into the center of the room.

"Why not?" Davy asked. "We meddle in other people's business all the time."

"Oh yeah," Mike remembered. "In that case, we need to come up with a plan to save the hotel."

* * *

Phase One: Renaissance- I mean, recommences- no, wait... Oh! Reconnaissance. Yeah. Recon. It was time to find out exactly why the hotel was being shut down.

Splitting up into two teams, the Monkees went on their reconnaissance mission, Mike and Davy to ask Tawnia, who, as concierge, heard practically everything that went on in the hotel, and Micky and Peter to try their luck with Mr. Spiner.

Mr. Spiner proved to be no help, as soon as the closure of the hotel was mentioned, Mr. Spiner remembered he had to make a very important phone call and ushered them out of the room post haste.

"Well, that didn't branch out at all," Micky said, giving the now-closed door of Mr. Spiner's office one last glare before turning away.

"Maybe Mike and Davy had better luck," Peter suggested hopefully.

"Well, let's go check," Micky said.

Mike and Davy did indeed have better luck. As Micky and Peter walked up to the two boys, still talking to Tawnia, Davy noticed them coming up. "Guys, you've gotta hear this," He said. Then he turned to Tawnia. "Could you start over, please?" He asked.

Tawnia nodded. "About three months ago," she said. "This guy came to the hotel and offered to buy it. He said this was the perfect location for a soda bottle factory. Mr. Spiner turned him down, said he wouldn't sell. Then, accidents started happening."

"What kind of accidents?" Micky asked.

"At first, it was just little things," Tawnia said. "Things like the windows getting broken, or deliveries of food being delayed or not coming at all. Then, things started getting more serious."

"How serious?" Peter asked.

Tawnia looked around before leaning in close. "People started getting hurt," she said quietly. "We've gone through staff so fast it's not even funny. We don't know who's doing it, or how, but there are so many 'Accidents' that it can't be just a coincidence. The last new guy to come and work for us left after two days with a broken wrist, after someone left a roller skate on the stairs and he stepped on it."

"Yikes," Peter said. "Sounds serious."

"It is," Tawnia said. "The last straw was last week, someone cut the elevator lines. Luckily, no one was in it, so no one got hurt. But people aren't coming here anymore, and with all the repairs we need to do, we're losing money. The buyer came back three days ago, and Mr. Spiner had to sell."

"When's everything getting shut down?" Mike asked, now that the recap was over.

"Thursday," Tawnia said. "That's the buyer over there, his name is Harry Andrews, he and a few goons are always hanging around, one of the reasons why I think he's behind all the "accidents." Besides, he looks like a bad guy."

The Monkees all examined Harry Andrews, and in their expert opinion, he did indeed look like a bad guy, simply because behind his suit-and-tie appearance, he had shifty eyes, and as he casually gazed around the room, he had a barely concealed smirk playing across his mouth.

"Oh yeah," Davy said. "That guy's bad news."

Mike sniffed suspiciously, and the Monkees all walked slowly over to Mr. Harry Andrews, who saw them coming and raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me," Mike said. "Are you the man who's buying this building?"

"Yes, I am, who are you?" The man said, his smirk coming out of hiding slightly as he looked over the Monkees.

"We're the Monkees," Micky said. "And this hotel is important to us."

"Really?" The man said, smiling sickeningly, all pretenses of being an unconcerned business man gone.

"Well, to Peter an I, anyway," Micky said.

"Don't worry, Micky, anything important to you or Peter is important to us to," Davy said.

"You said it, Davy," Mike agreed.

"Well, it just so happens to be important to me, too," Harry said. "I'm going to tear down this building and build a soda-bottle factory!"

"Now, wait a minute," Mike said. "Why build a factory in the middle of the city? Wouldn't you have better business in the industrial district or something?"

"Maybe I would," Harry said. "But I want this spot. And you know what? I'm not just tearing it down, I'm going to blow the whole thing up, and leave all these good people with no jobs!"

"Have you no heart?" Peter asked with a frown.

"Sold it awhile back," Harry said seriously. "I'm running on batteries."

"Woah, really?" Micky asked, distracted.

"Duracell works wonders," Harry said. "Anyway! I'm going to shut this hotel down on Thursday, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!"

"We'll see about that!" Micky said angrily.

"Was that a threat?" Harry said idly, as two of his bigger goons stepped forward menacingly.

Micky yiped. "No," he squeaked. "No threat, really, I was just saying we'd, you know, see it, when it happens."

"Thought so," Harry said, his goons stepping back again. "Well then, I've got very important business matters to attend to. If you boys are done...?"

Dejected, the Monkees all withdrew to the basement to begin phase two: come up with a plan of sorts.

* * *

Phase three: Implement the plan thought up during phase two. They had to get rid of Harry and his goons. This could only be accomplished through trickery, disguises, and the fine art of perfectly executed well thought out plans.

"Oof!" said Davy, disguised as a very short janitor, as Peter bumped into him. "Watch it Pete, I'm walking here!"

"Sorry," Peter whispered. "It's just I can't see."

"Peter, you're disguised as a blind man, not actually blind," Davy said. "You can have your eyes open, the glasses make it so we can't see your eyes."

"Well, I thought closing my eyes would make the disguise more realistic," Peter said, facing the wrong direction entirely.

"Peter, I'm over here," Davy told him.

"Oh yeah," Peter said, turning around and hitting Davy's knees with his white cane.

"Ouch!" Davy said as Micky, behind the concierge desk, rang the bell four times in succession. "Oh, there's the signal! Let's get this over with."

"Wait," Peter said. "I can't remember my part of the plan!"

"Trip him on the stairs," Davy whispered before pushing his cleaning cart into the lobby, so Peter cautiously moved forward and ran into the door jam before moving past it and continuing on his way, heading toward the stairs.

Davy, meanwhile, started his part by placing a "CAUTION: WET FLOOR" sign on the tiled floors of the lobby, and then mopping the floor so it was very wet and very slippery.

They had convinced Tawnia to join in the plan; as a concierge, it was her job to inform Harry that a group of thugs were in the lobby looking for him.

Harry received the message, and followed by his thugs, hurried down the stairs, only to run into Peter, who happened to walk directly in front of him at just the right time. "Watch it!" Harry exclaimed angrily as he looked behind him at Peter. Turning back around, he slipped on the wet floor, conveniently tripping over the wet floor sign and landing headfirst in the soapy bucket, which Mike proceeded to rush towards the door while the rest of the goons continued slipping and sliding and falling to the ground.

Micky, dressed like a bouncer, had moved quickly to reach the front doors after ringing the bell, and now grimly held the door open while Mike unceremoniously dumped the now wet Harry into the large muddy puddle right off the curb, where the cars usually pulled up.

The Monkees all assembled in front of Harry as he stood, and they one by one pulled off their disguises, so he could see who they were.

Harry sputtered angrily. "You dare- I'll have you- you ought to be-"

"Awarded?" Micky suggested. "Congratulated? Thanked?"

"Arrested!" Harry shouted out. "I'll have you all arrested!"

"What if we had you arrested first?" Mike said calmly. "What if we told the police about how you've been vandalizing this hotel and assaulting the employees so you could force Mr. Spiner to close down the building and sell it to you? That sounds illegal to me."

"The police!" Harry scoffed. "They'd never believe four long-haired weirdo's like yourselves! You have no proof!"

"You mean you admit it?" Micky asked.

"Yes, I admit it," Harry said. "But nobody would take your word over mine!"

"We'll just see about that," said a man stepping out from behind a corner.

Harry gaped at the sight of the badge and uniform. "You- you heard all of that?" He asked.

"Sure did," the police-chief said. "We've been onto you for quite awhile, but had no proof. These four boys called us up and said they could get you to admit it."

"You- you set me up!" Harry exclaimed angrily.

"Yep," Micky said. "Yessir, we did," Mike said at the same time. "That's the way it goes," Peter was also saying, and Davy was nodding and "mm-hmm"ing his agreement.

Several more police officers were now stepping into the lobby and arresting the other goons. As they were all escorted to the cars, Tawnia frowned. "That's odd," she said.

"What?" Micky asked her.

"Well, they only arrested Harry and four goons," she said. "But I'm sure there were five earlier."

"That is strange," Mike said. "But I don't think it's too worrying. After all, one goon with no boss won't be able to do much against the hotel. You guys should all be safe now."

Needless to say, Mr. Spiner was extremely grateful to the Monkees. Not only did he promise to always have Micky and Peter's room ready for them, he gave the order to keep the room next to it free as well, for Mike and Davy. He also gave a standing order for them to have free food for every meal whenever they were in town, and he carved their names into the wooden beam overhanging the concierge desk.

He would have given them money, but he was still broke, even if he wasn't selling the hotel anymore. The Monkees all got together and decided to give him one last Christmas present. They offered to play a show in the hotel's club and restaurant, and Mr. Spiner agreed, but said not to be surprised if the room was empty all night.

Then Micky called up all his old friends, and told them to bring _their_ friends, and he said to be sure and bring spending money for dinner. Mike, Peter and Davy hand-wrote a bunch of flyers advertising the grand un-closing of the hotel, and posted them all over town at bus stops, the train station, and anywhere else that seemed to have a lot of traffic.

The crowds came, the crowds danced, the crowds loved every minute of the Monkees' performance, and as they did their last song (White Christmas, Micky insisted on it, rubbing his shoulder and calling himself Danny Kaye for some reason), Mike could have swore he saw Mr. Spiner trying to hold back tears.

* * *

The next day, Micky woke up three hours earlier than usual, screamed like a little girl (which woke Peter up) then burst into Mike and Davy's room and vigorously shook them all awake, the whole while emitting a sort of high-pitched unending screech of sorts that they eventually discovered was his newest and rarest form of warp-speed-talk.

Once they were all awake and ready for the day, Micky practically jumped all four flights of stairs on his way to the kitchen, where Aunt franny had prepared a delicious Christmas breakfast fit for a king. Micky inhaled his food so fast that he choked and had to have all three of the other Monkees hit him on the back, then he jumped around and let out an enormous stream of speed-talk (the regular kind) until the others had finished breakfast.

At that point, they decided that they'd better take him to his mom's house before he exploded with anticipation, so they all piled into the Monkeemobile and drove to the house, Davy at the wheel so Peter and Mike could hold Micky down when he got too excited and almost fell out of the car again.

Upon reaching the house, it was all they could do to keep him in his seat until the engine stopped, and then they let him loose.

He had already burst into the door by the time the others undid their seatbelts, and as they walked up to the house, hearing three voices shrieking and screaming and shouting excitedly, they all looked at each other.

"Well," Mike said. "This is going to be one loud Christmas."

"I don't think I've ever seen Micky this excited before," Davy said, his eyes wide as they warily approached the front porch.

"You think _this_ is loud," Peter said with a grin. "Wait 'till they start spontaneously bursting into Christmas carols. I swear, it's like they're mind-readers or something, they all just suddenly burst into a song, without so much as looking at each other."

When they got inside, Peter was tackled by Jenna, and then Micky's mom, Diane, while Jenna told him all about the past few years, using a speed-talk that rivaled Micky's, having already told the same thing to him. Then Diane turned her attention to Mike and Davy, and they were welcomed into the family the same way Peter had been all those Christmases ago.

They spent the day helping to decorate the house and prepare the Christmas feast, and Davy and Mike were startled when, true to Peter's word, Jenna, who was hanging garland over the door, Micky, who was stringing lights onto the tree, and Diane, who was making gravy in the kitchen, suddenly started belting out The Christmas Song in perfect three-part harmony. They got over it quickly enough, and Davy grabbed his Maracas and Mike got out his guitar and Peter got out his bass and everyone stopped what they were doing (except for Diane, who had to watch the gravy or it would thicken too quickly) and gathered in the kitchen to finish out the impromptu music recital.

After everything was ready, they all sat around and talked and Jenna told them all about school, and they told her all about their adventures as the Monkees. Micky got over-excited during an impromptu dramatization of the time when he had been forced to pretend to be a dancing chicken in a ballet so Davy could look for Peter who had been kidnapped by foreign spies, and proceeded to try and replicate the exact dance he had done onstage, right there in the living room.

Then they all had Christmas dinner together, with Diane at the head of the table, Micky and Jenna competing to see who could eat the most the fastest, Peter drowning absolutely everything on his plate in gravy (even the pumpkin pie) and Mike and Davy complimenting Diane's cooking and simultaneously trying to avoid getting their beverages spilt by Micky and Jenna, who had proceeded to arm-wrestle across the table.

After dinner, they opened all the presents from underneath the tree. All four of them got bags of sweets from Jenna, and they each got a sweater from Diane, matching red ones with their names embroidered in green on the front, and "The Monkees" embroidered in black on the back. Jenna got Diane a genuine autographed Monkees record (signed by all four Monkees!) that she had requested Micky bring, and she would pay him for it before they left.

Mike got Micky a new pair of boots, as Micky's had been getting pretty worn out. Davy got Peter a new multi-colored guitar strap, that looked very psychedelic. Micky got Jenna a cropped leather jacket, she had been talking about wanting one in the last note she'd scrawled to him on the back of her mother's letter. Peter got Mike a pair of black leather gloves that made him look like he wanted to strangle somebody. Mike asked what made Peter think of getting them for him for Christmas, and Peter said it was either that or the Mickey Mouse gloves. Everyone blinked, but thought better than to ask what he meant.

Mike got Davy a new set of maracas, and Peter suddenly got very quiet. Then Davy opened Peter's present and found... a new pair of maracas. Everyone laughed, and Davy promised that since he already played sometimes with four in each hand, he could still use both sets of maracas. Davy got Mike three new notebooks and a box of new pencils, as Mike went through paper and pencils so quickly when writing songs.

Peter gave Diane a simple gold chain with a crystal teardrop pendant he'd found in a thrift store and thought she might like, and he got Jenna a pretty silver charm bracelet, with a crystal heart charm, from the same store. Mike got Peter a string of peace-beads, as Peter's had snapped about a week earlier, and several of the beads had been lost down the drain of the kitchen sink, where Peter had been placing the dirty dishes.

Micky got Mike a giant-sized coffee cup shaped like a cowboy boot. Davy got Micky a small coffee cup the size of a shot glass, saying that it was in hopes of reigning in Micky's hyperness, when by all rights, he shouldn't be allowed to drink coffee anyway. In response, Micky playfully threatened to take back the present he got Davy. Davy retorted that he hadn't even opened it yet. So Micky made Davy open it, and Davy found a multi-colored plastic step-stool that said "BIG BOY" in large, childish looking letters. Davy got red in the face and sulked for a minute, but everyone else was laughing so hard that eventually, he saw the funny side of it, and declared that maybe now he would be able to look through the peep-hole of their front door.

Peter got Micky a giant green clock that had birds on the hour marks instead of numbers, and every time the hour changed, the respective bird chirped or whistled or whatever it is birds do. Micky immediately opened it and began changing the time to hear all the bird calls, and he tried his hand at imitating them. He absolutely loved it, but it only took about ten minutes for everyone else to discover they hated it, and Mike was already sighing at the thought that he shared a room with Micky and would be hearing these bird calls for as long as the clock lasted. After Micky was done playing with his clock, he handed a package to Peter, who opened it and discovered a silver harmonica, something he had recently decided to try and learn, saying it would "just make the band."

Davy and Mike, who hadn't met Jenna or Diane before, hadn't known what to get them, and so they had asked Micky and Peter what to get. Peter had said that both Diane and Jenna would love anything at all, because they knew that it wasn't the gift, but the giver. And Micky had said "I don't know. Make-up? Jewelry? Chocolate?" So they weren't much help. Finally, Davy had used his vast knowledge of girls in general to pick out the perfect gift for Jenna; a bottle of perfume that smelled so good, Micky threatened to pour in the sink when she unwrapped it. For Diane, he got a paisley-patterned apron that he had heard Micky say she would love while walking past. Mike hadn't had Davy's advantage, and he figured jewelry was a safe option, so for Jenna, he bought a pair of small red earrings he kind of liked, and he got Diane a rhinestone bracelet.

The last present was from Micky to his mother, and it was big, flat, and square. When Diane opened it, she found herself staring at a blown up image of the last picture taken of the family while Daryl was alive. In the picture, Micky, who was standing in the middle, had just said something funny, and his face was frozen mid-sentence, his mouth open and his eyes closed, looking proud of himself. Next to Micky, Jenna was doubled over in laughter, her eyes squeezed shut. On Micky's other side, Daryl had thrown his head back to laugh, so all that could be seen was his chin and open mouth. Directly behind Micky and Daryl was Peter, who had face-palmed at the joke, but was laughing anyway. And next to Peter was Diane, who was laughing at the joke, but at the same time, looking annoyed that they had ruined the picture, as she was the only one with her eyes open.

She held it and stared, and came very close to tears, before taking a deep breath and suddenly pulling Micky into a hug. Then she made him go on a hunt for a hammer and some nails, and Mike helped her hang it on the wall. Then, they all got bundled up and went Christmas caroling, something that Diane admitted she and Jenna had stopped doing, as they thought it rather silly to go caroling just the two of them. The Monkees brought their instruments, and everyone in the neighborhood said it was the best caroling they'd heard all night.

They ended the night with "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," and it made such an impact on Diane that after they returned home and were gathered around the fire with mugs of hot chocolate, she started singing it softly. The others joined her, Micky singing a high harmony, Mike singing a low, Peter strumming out a soft accompaniment, and Davy singing a soft echo during the chorus.

_"Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_May your heart be light_

_Next year, all our troubles will be out of sight._

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Make the yuletide gay_

_Next year, all our troubles will be miles away!_

_Once again, as in olden days,_

_Happy golden days of yore_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us_

_Will be near to us once more._

_Someday soon, we all will be together_

_If the fates allow_

_Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow._

_So have yourself a merry little Christmas now."_

And as the fire blazed and the room got quiet, each Monkee thought of the family members they wouldn't be seeing that year, Mike thought of his folks back at the ranch, Davy thought of his family back in England, Peter thought of his family back in Connecticut, and Micky stared at the picture of his father on the wall. And even though it was hard, even though it was sad, each Monkee found themselves thankful that this Christmas was spent with family, if not blood-relations for some, family nonetheless.

* * *

The train station was crowded with holiday travelers, people rushing to get to this relative's house or that relative's house, trying to catch trains and find buses, happy families meeting up after a long day of travel, even thought it was Christmas night itself, the station was far from busy. No one noticed as a man made his way through the crowd towards one of the telephone booths, and no one noticed the panicked look on his face, or the small sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was not looking forward to this call.

He dialed the number and waited anxiously for the man on the other end to pick up, and as soon as he heard the drawling "Hello?" through the receiver, he took a deep breath and resolved to get it over with.

"Hello, boss?" he said. "This is Georgie. ...Georgie Donaldson, yes. ...Well, you see, the thing is, we um... well, Harry, he... We lost the hotel. ...Yes sir, I'm sorry, sir, I know you said you wanted it, I know you said it was yours, but we ran into trouble... Yeah, it was four kids, they showed up outta nowhere and fought like they had some sorta vendetta against us. ...Yeah, four boys, a fuzzy-headed kid, a kid with a goofy hat, a blonde kid and a short british kid. Y-yes sir, that's what they called themselves, the monkeys. ...Two e's? What a stupid way to spell... Yes sir, they got Harry and the others arrested. I'm mighty sorry, sir, I- ...What? ...Oh, no sir, I'm just surprised you're taking it so well. I mean, your big project goin' down the drain... N-no sir, I'm not sayin' I's afraid or nothin'. ...Oh. I'm sorry sir, I swear, I won't say that again! But the hotel, sir, do you want us to try again? ...Oh, you've got something else planned? Okay... Yes sir... got it, sir... The boys? ...Oh, right, got it. Yes sir, I'll do that, sir, and I'll tell you everything I find out. Yes sir. Goodbye, sir."

With that, the man hung up the phone, stared at it for a minute, then let out a sigh of relief. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his forehead and exited the phone booth, much happier than when he had stepped in. For whatever reason, the real boss hadn't seemed to care about losing the hotel. No, he was much more interested in those four boys, those Monkees...


	33. Untitled Chapter

_Inspired by Season 2 episode 10, The Wild Monkees, and done on request. Also, The Birds the Bees and the Monkees. XD_

* * *

The Monkees always seemed to get into all kinds of trouble. It was a fact of life, the birds whistled, the bees buzzed, and the Monkees got into trouble. But another fact of life was they always got out of it again. Which was why Peter was fairly confident that one of them would win the Black Angels Olympics and save the town and to a lesser extent, themselves (Okay, maybe not _that _lesser of an extent).

So he put on his motorcycle helmet and his goggles, and he walked over to his bike, as did Davy, Mike and Micky. Butch growled and threatened them, and the Black Angels started their engines. As Peter mounted his bike, he felt a thrill of hope. He felt confident that one of the Monkees would win, and they would get out of this situation relatively unscathed. But what if _he_ were the one to do it? What if he were the one to ride his bike across the finish line to victory, and be the hero? The others had all put themselves in harms way to save the day before, more than once, to save him in particular. He had a knack for screwing things up. He wanted to be able to do the same for them every once in awhile. He wanted to be the hero.

The gunshot went off, signifying the start of the race! A surge of adrenaline rushed through Peter, as he saw the Black Angels pull ahead, then the other Monkees one by one. His bike wouldn't start.

The crowd urged him to go, they shouted and cheered and yelled out encouragements, trying to get him to go.

"It won't start!" He called out. "The engine won't start!"

He tried several more times, but it just wouldn't start. The Black Angels had already finished the first lap, they came roaring around the bend. Peter felt a slow rise of panic building inside him. "My bike won't start!" He called out again, looking up to see Mike pass by, glancing at him absently. He was really focused on the race.

Peter continued to try and start his bike, and he looked up as Davy drove past, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and pity. Then Micky came by, looking actually a little scared, though Peter knew he would never admit to it later.

Several people in the crowd came out to try and figure out what was wrong with the bike as Butch went by again, starting his third lap. Peter sighed. He wouldn't win the race now even if his bike miraculously started. He took off his helmet. Funny. He was one of the only two racers of the day to think about safety, and he wasn't even in the race.

Peter watched as two more Black Angels rode by. If he wasn't going to race, he would cheer on the other Monkees. Whenever they showed up, that is. Several mechanics were now tinkering with his bike, finding several things wrong with it, discussing how they were surprised that it was still in one piece.

The fourth member of the Black Angels went by, tied with Mike. Davy passed by soon after. Then came Micky, with a... well, that was strange. Somehow, Micky had obtained a real monkey, it was riding on his back, holding on. Micky smiled nervously and waved to Peter as he passed.

Peter laughed. Leave it to Micky to manage turning a deadly motorcycle race they were doomed to lose anyway resulting in their imminent destruction into something laughable. Peter would never forget the sight of Micky on a motorcycle with a monkey on his back for as long as he lived. Even though, by the look of things, that wouldn't exactly be very long.

"Hey, kid, try starting it now," one of the mechanics said.

"Well, alright," Peter said. "But it won't do me much good now. The race is half over."

"How's that for gratitude," The mechanic huffed. "Here I am, trying to help, and that's how you thank me?"

"Sorry," Peter said, trying to start it. He felt a blast of air and heard a motorcycle go by, then two more.

"Step on it again," The mechanic said. "A little harder this time."

He stepped on it again. Another Motorcycle went by.

"Harder."

Again. Another Motorcycle went by.

"Harder."

He tried again, and another Motorcycle went by.

"Thank you for your help," Peter said to the mechanic. "But it's too late now. They're all on the final lap. They'll be coming around the bend any minute!"

The Mechanic sighed. "You're probably right," he said. "Well, tough luck, ain't it?" he joked. "Guess we know who's coming in last!"

He guffawed with some of the others, and Peter sighed.

"Wait," another mechanic said. "I think I got it! Kid, try it now!"

"But I want to watch the end of the race," Peter said.

"Yeah, but I think I got it!" The man said. "Come on, just try it!"

Peter tried it a few more times, and he heard the sound of motorcycles going by. One after another.

ZOOM

ZOOM

ZOOM

ZOOM

ZOOM

ZOOM

ZOOM

Seven motorcycles. The race was over.

He looked up and saw everyone slow their motorcycles down to a stop. Davy looked a little dizzy as he jumped down, he stumbled around a few times before smiling and heading towards Mike, who was sitting on his stopped motorcycle, clutching the handlebars and staring straight ahead.

Davy put a hand on Mike's shoulder, and Mike looked at him. Davy said something, grinning, and Mike blinked for a second before smiling back and getting off his bike.

Micky was still on his bike, but he was far from holding still. He seemed to be on some sort of adrenaline rush; he was practically jumping up and down in his seat, and he was chattering so loud that Peter could hear him from where he was, even though he couldn't make out any words.

His excitement seemed to hit the right note with the Black Angels near to him, they shared an amused glance with each other. It was like they were remembering_ their_ first motorcycle race.

Peter smiled. He was glad Micky seemed to have had fun. Micky looked over and saw him smiling, and he grinned excitedly. "PETE!" He yelled, jumping off his bike and running over to Peter.

"Peter, oh my gosh, that was amazing!" Micky said, entering the world of speed-talk. "At first, I got like, really nervous, cause the bike almost tipped over, and I went in a circle, but then I started to get the hang of it, and I was riding, and I saw Davy was in front of me, and I was trying to catch up to him, cause I figured, the best way to race is to just focus on whoever's in front of you, but that didn't really work out, cause I finished last, but anyway, so I was trying to catch up to Davy, and then this guy kept trying to push me away, and I don't know why he bothered, 'cause I was dead last, but he kept trying anyway, and then he threw a newspaper at my head, and I couldn't see, and I think I almost ran into Davy, but there was a hole in the paper right in front of my eye, so I could see, and then I finally got the piece of paper off and the guy tried to hit me again, but I dodged it and he drove away. Then I felt something furry, and there were fingers, and I looked around, and there was a monkey on my back!"

"Yeah, I'd wondered about that," Peter said with a laugh.

"I don't know where it came from!" Micky laughed. "And it rode on me for awhile, then it disappeared and I don't know what happened to it. And I saw Davy, he was riding his motorcycle, and he put his feet up onto the seat!"

"I'll bet Mike didn't like that," Peter noted.

"I don't know if he saw," Micky said. "But if he did, I'll bet he didn't! But then everyone else was so far ahead of me, I figured there wasn't any point in trying to catch up, so I stopped and hid behind a shed, and when Butch stopped there to get a drink of water, I tied his bike to a tree, but he just pulled the tree up and drove away with it! And then when I was getting on my bike again this guy came out of nowhere and dusted me with a feather duster!"

"Maybe he doesn't like dirty dusty bikers," Peter suggested as Mike and Davy walked up to them, watching the exchange with amusement.

"Maybe," Micky said with a laugh. "And then I drove really really really fast, and I caught up to everyone else, except I was a lap behind, I never finished the final lap. And everyone was driving to the finish line, and it was so loud, did you hear all those engines!? And the wind in my face was to die for! Man, Peter, that was so much fun! I really wish you could've felt what it was like!"

Peter smiled. "Maybe I will," he said. "If the Black Angels leave us alive, maybe we can go riding, without it being a life-or-death race."

"Sounds good!" Micky said, and Mike shook his head in awe.

"Peter," he said. "You're the only person I know who can understand Micky's speed-talk enough to be able to hold a conversation with him while he's doing it."

"Hey, Chickens," Butch said, walking up to them. They all clucked instinctively.

Butch grinned menacingly. "We all won," he said, indicating himself and the other Black Angels. "As soon as the judges say so, we have the rights to destroy you!"

"Well, that sure dampens my spirits," Micky said, as the girls stepped down from behind their judges stand. For a second, it looked like they were running towards the Monkees, but they rushed right past them and hugged the Black Angels. But then Davy decided not to waste a perfectly good hug, and so the Monkees all shared a group hug before turning to Butch, who asked who wanted to be destroyed first.

Before he could do any destroying, however, Queenie stepped in and complained that she was done with life on the road, and wanted to settle down and build illegal motorcycles. So The Black Angels all agreed to settle down, and the jerk hotel manager who'd caused all this trouble in the first place got eight new henchmen. Peter inwardly shook his head at the manager's folly. He would soon learn that hiring eight rough, delinquent criminals to help run his hotel for the elderly wasn't a very good idea.

But, it made Butch and Queenie and all the others happy, and that meant that the Monkees wouldn't be destroyed.

* * *

And so, Peter made good on his promise, and one of the Black Angels lent his bike to Peter, and the Monkees all went for a motorcycle ride through the country. As Peter felt the wind on part of his face (safety first; he was wearing his helmet), he smiled. Riding a motorcycle was just as fun as Micky had described.

Then he caught a bug in his open mouth, sputtered, slowed down enough to spit it back out, and continued on the ride, this time with his mouth firmly closed. Riding a motorcycle was _almost_ as fun as Micky had described.


	34. Two single scoop love potions, please

_Author's note: This chapter was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentines day, but due to computer problems, then sickness, AND a lack of inspiration, it's been put off until now. However, it's up now, so enjoy! The story is based on a short silent film that Peter Tork made in college, called "The Love Potion," available to watch on Youtube._

* * *

It was five in the afternoon, on Friday, February the 13th, and there was a knock at the door.

"Micky, can you get that?" Mike asked from the second story, where he was leaning over the railing trying to get a set of streamers hung up for a small party they were going to have for Peter's birthday that night.

"Can't, sorry," Micky said from the kitchen, where he was washing the used paper plates. "My hands are all soapy."

"Davy?" Mike grunted, losing his balance and almost falling, but catching himself just in time.

"I'm a little busy right now," Davy called from the bedroom, where he was frantically trying to wrap Peter's present.

"I can get the door, I'm not doing anything," Peter said, standing up from the couch.

"Peter, it's your birthday, you shouldn't have to do any work," Micky said. "Just give me a second, I'll rinse off my hands and then find a towel and I'll answer it."

"No, really," Peter said, walking towards the door. "You guys are all working and I'm not doing anything at all, and it's making me have cabin fever!"

"I thought you had to be on a boat to get cabin fever," Micky said absently, rinsing off his hands.

"Sienna!?" Peter said with a gasp, looking out the small window in their door. He slammed the window shut and turned around, leaning against the door with his eyes and mouth wide open.

"Peter?" Mike asked, staring at the blonde. "What was that all about?"

"Oh, that was nothing," Peter said unconvincingly. "Wrong number."

"Peter, you said a name," Mike said, pulling himself up over the railing and heading toward the stairs.

"And you look like you've seen a ghost," Davy noted, coming from the room and setting the now-wrapped present on the table.

"Yeah, not to mention, whoever it was didn't call on the phone," Micky said, drying his hands off with a towel. "Maybe they had the wrong address, but not the wrong number."

"Oh, right," Peter said with a smile. "That's what it was. A wrong address."

By that time, Mike, Micky and Davy had reached the door, and Micky took Peter's arm and pulled him away from it while Mike opened the door.

The person standing outside was a girl, no younger than twenty, no older than twenty-five. She was very pretty, with soft brown hair pulled back in a headband, and she was wearing a white sundress with yellow flowers on the skirt. She looked confused and a bit put off by the fact that the window cover had been slammed in her face.

"Hello?" She said. "Is this where the Monkees live?"

"Yes, it is," Mike said. "Won't you come in, miss...?"

"Sienna May Abbot, I'm looking for..." the girl started, trailing off as she saw Peter.

"Well, nice to meet you, miss Sienna May Abbot, who's looking for..." Micky quipped.

"I take it you two know each other then?" Davy said with a smile, glancing between Sienna and Peter.

Peter nodded. "Hello, Sienna," he said. "It's been... awhile."

"You could say that again," Sienna said. Then she looked at Mike and Micky and stood there awkwardly for a minute.

"...Oh, won't you come in and have a seat?" Mike said finally, stepping back and holding his hand out to the backless couch.

"Thank you," Sienna said, stepping in and sitting down. The Monkees also sat down, Davy taking the ottoman and Mike and Micky sitting on chairs. That left Peter to sit down next to Sienna on the couch, which he did hesitantly.

"I won't be here long," Sienna said. "I was just... in Malibu, for the day, and I wanted... well, I knew it was Peter's birthday, and I heard he lived with a group called the Monkees, so I thought I'd stop by and... say hello to Peter. Hello, Peter."

Peter smiled a small smile. "Hello, Sienna," he said. "You know... again."

Sienna forced a laugh and then everything got quiet. Micky heard a clock ticking in the background, which was weird because usually the house was too loud to hear anything from the clock.

"Well..." She said after a minute, standing up. "I guess I'd better get going..."

"Oh, really?" Peter said, standing up as well. "Well, um, it was nice seeing you again, Sienna. Um, next time you're in Malibu, you go ahead and feel free to... stop by..."

"Thanks, I will," Sienna said, walking over to the door. "Um... goodbye, Peter."

With that, she left.

Mike, Davy and Micky looked at each other, and then looked at Peter, who was staring at the door.

"Do you want to do the honors?" Mike asked Micky.

"Don't mind if I do," Micky told Mike. Then he turned to Peter. "What was that about?" He asked.

"Hmm?" Peter asked, turning to them absently. "Oh! You mean Sienna."

"Yeah, that's who we meant," Mike said. "Who else could we have been talking about?"

"I don't know," Peter said. "The delivery man?"

"Why would we be talking about the delivery man?" Micky asked.

"And why didn't you invite that girl to stay for the party?" Davy added. "She knew it was your birthday, and I mean, think about it, you don't get the girl very often. In fact, I think it only happened twice in the series, if memory serves."

"It wouldn't have worked out," Peter said. "Trust me."

"You know, this is all very mysterious," Mike noted. "How about you start from the beginning? Sienna obviously knew you already, and I've never even heard about her before. When did you meet her? Who is she?"

"Oh, well, she's just... a girl... I knew before I met you guys... it's nothing, really." Peter said, getting a little red.

Micky grinned. This was going to be good. "Oh no, it's definitely something more than that," he said. "Come on, Peter, tell me about it. Tell me about _her_."

Peter frowned nervously. "I... I don't... it's not really... But you'll laugh."

"Peter!" Micky exclaimed. "I wouldn't laugh at you! I would never laugh at you! Have I ever laughed at you?"

"Yes, you have," Peter said defensively. "Last week, when I tripped over that crack in the sidewalk!"

Micky blinked. "But... you tripped over a small crack in the sidewalk!" He said. "Laughing is allowed then!"

"Peter, we promise, we won't laugh," Mike said. "Right, Micky?"

Micky looked over at Mike. "Oh, yeah! Yeah, I promise, Peter, I won't laugh."

Peter sighed. "Fine," he said. "It was after I'd left Kent, but before I got here to Malibu. I found myself in Jasper, Ohio. I liked it, the scenery was nice, and there were a lot of good people there. So I decided to stay, at least for a little bit. I couldn't find a place to stay, but I found a used car for sale cheap and bought that, so I had somewhere to put my bass. That was enough. I got a job out in Jackson, and I made it a week without an incident."

"Then what happened?" Davy asked.

"I met Sienna," Peter said simply.

"Let me guess," Micky interrupted. "Love at first sight?"

Peter smiled and nodded. "Yeah..." he said. "But she had a boyfriend."

"Oh boy," Mike said. "Of course she did."

"I tried to just forget her, so I went for a walk," Peter said, ignoring Mike. "But it didn't work. I ended up at her house, hiding behind the bushes. Then one day, I was driving by the drive in, and I saw her there, waiting. So I pulled in and offered to buy her an ice cream."

"Smooth," Micky said.

"Thanks, Mick," Peter said absently. "She said yes, so I went to the window and bought two ice creams, but when I turned around, she was gone, and I saw her boyfriend's car driving away."

"Ooh, tough luck," Mike said.

"Yeah, but I got to eat both ice creams, so it wasn't all bad," Peter said. "But after that, I was determined to forget her. So I went down to Jackson, there was a county fair there. But I rode the ferris wheel, and couldn't stop thinking about Sienna. Then I found the fortune teller's shop."

"Wait a minute," Mike said. "I thought fortune tellers gave you the creeps."

"They do," Peter said. "But the sign said she also sold potions."

"Oh no," Davy said. "Tell me you didn't."

"I did," Peter admitted. "I went into the store and ordered one love potion. Then I waited until the community picnic that Sunday, and I tried to spill it in her drink."

"Tried to?" Micky asked. "You mean, something went wrong?"

"You bet something went wrong," Peter said. "She moved her hand away to take a drink of her water, and I accidentally poured the whole potion into the pitcher of lemonade."

"Oh no!" Micky said with a smile, but he kept his promise and didn't laugh.

"Yeah," Peter said. "And then I took the pitcher to go dump it out, but one of the ladies saw me with it and asked me to pour her another glass."

"You didn't do it, did you?" Mike asked.

"I did," Peter said. "I had no choice. I even tried to drop the pitcher so it would break and all the lemonade would be ruined, but the guy standing next to her caught it, so I had to pour her a glass. Then everybody started asking me to pour them another cup, and I just didn't know what to do, so I had to pour everybody another cup. Well, the potion worked."

"What happened?" Micky asked.

"Let's just say the only girl who didn't chase me out of the picnic was Sienna," Peter said. "I finally managed to lose everybody when we ran past the river and I jumped in and waited for them to all pass. I had to leave after that, the potion didn't last more than a few hours because it was spread out so much, but all the girls were confused about what came over them, and all the guys were mad at me because their girlfriends were chasing me, and they were all fighting with each other, and I just couldn't stay. I learned a very important lesson, however."

"What's that," Davy asked. "Never try to force love on someone, because it isn't real love and it will only come back to hurt you in the end?"

"Nope," Peter said. "I learned that even the elderly can run fast if they're chasing someone who accidentally gave them a love potion."

* * *

It was two in the afternoon, on Saturday, February the 14th, Valentines day, and there was a knock at the door.

"Micky, could you get that?" Mike asked from the kitchen, where he was washing the leftover paper plates.

"Can't, I'm a bit busy," Micky said, hanging from the railing and pulling the tangled streamers out to thrown them to the floor.

The door knocked again, and Mike sighed. "Davy, how about you?" he called out. No response. "Davy?" He called again.

"I'm afraid Davy isn't in right now, would you like me to take a message?" Micky said, dropping down to the floor and cupping his hands over his mouth to make it sound as if he was talking through a receiver.

"Well, where'd he go?" Mike asked.

"He's out with his new girlfriend, he'll be back soon," Peter said. "I can get the door."

"Davy has a new girlfriend?" Mike wondered out loud. "How come you guys knew about that and I didn't?"

"Sienna!?" Peter said with a gasp, having looked out the small window in their door. He slammed the window shut and turned around, leaning against it in surprise.

"Here we go again," Micky said, as Mike dried off his hands, looking amused.

They walked up to Peter, who was smiling sheepishly, and Micky pulled him away while Mike opened the door.

Outside, Sienna smiled. "Is that a custom here in Malibu?" She joked.

"Only here on the Monkees," Mike deadpanned. "Coming to you every Thursday at eight, or, more recently, being posted online for all to read."

"I see," Sienna said, although she frowned in confusion. "I came to see Peter. Is he here?"

"I'm here," Peter said, having found his voice.

"Oh, hello, Peter," Sienna said with a smile. "I'll bet you're wondering what I'm doing here again."

"Yeah, I was wondering that," Peter said.

"Well, it's very simple," Sienna said. "I decided to stay in Malibu for another day, and I was thinking about what happened yesterday, and I realized that it was my own fault."

"Your fault?" Peter asked. "How was it your fault?"

"Well, I showed up at your front door after several years without so much as a 'remember me' phone call to warn you I was coming," she said. "I was hardly what you'd consider sociable while I was here, and I was the one who decided to come on Friday the 13th anyway, even if it was your birthday."

Peter smiled. "Oh, I'm not superstitious," he said

"That's good," Sienna said with a smile. "But I was thinking... it seems to me that I owe you an ice cream."

Peter blinked in surprise, then chuckled nervously. "But, what about your boyfriend?" He asked.

"My boyfriend!?" Sienna exclaimed with a laugh. "Peter, I haven't had a boyfriend for two years. And even he wasn't my boyfriend for very long. I don't have a boyfriend, Peter. And I was in Malibu, I remembered you, I looked you up, and I want to finish what we started all those years ago. So let's go get an ice cream."

Peter smiled. "Alright," he said. "Let's go."

With that, Peter and Sienna left the pad, and Micky chuckled as he shut the door behind them. "What'd'ya know," he said. "After all this time, the one girl who didn't get the potion shows up, all on her own."

"Yep, and on Valentines day, too," Mike said, glancing at his watch. "Seems like everybody's getting good luck as far as romance goes this year."

"I wouldn't exactly call two out of four 'everybody,' Mike," Micky noted. "Just because Davy and Peter have dates doesn't mean-"

He was interrupted as there was another knock on the door, and Mike smirked at him good naturedly, a twinkle in his eye.

"_Three_ outta four," he said, walking towards the front door. Opening the door, Micky saw a girl who had been at their last gig, smiling up at Mike. "Hey, there, Chelsea," Mike said. "Ready to go?"

Chelsea nodded, and Micky sputtered, dumbstruck. Had he been the only one who hadn't gotten a date?

Mike turned and smiled up at all the readers. "How's that for a twist?" He asked with a wink as he escorted Chelsea from the pad.

All alone, Micky chuckled. This was certainly turning out to be a strange Valentines day. But it was far from over yet. Running over to the phone, he pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and dialed the number written on it. He waited as it rang, and smiled. Hopefully, Mike was right, and this was a good year for romance. "Hello, Stephanie?" He said as the line was picked up. "I know this is short notice, but... how do you feel about ice cream?"


End file.
